


The Lady Fawn

by SecurityCat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Multi, OOC characters, Robert's bastard, Storm's End centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-23 06:39:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 39,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11984262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecurityCat/pseuds/SecurityCat
Summary: The houses of Storm's End are in a state of unrest as some usurpers arise to claim Lordship over the region. Stannis and Renly Baratheon have a solution: one of Robert's bastards will be naturalized and made Lord Paramount in Renly's place. Arlyse Snow doesn't know much beyond the reaches of Bear Island and the North, but she must find a way to fit the new, unfamiliar shoe of ladyship while battling the attempts of the Queen to assassinate her.





	1. Houses Baratheon

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first public story ever (and I'm also not familiar with writing my own fan fiction either). Any support I can get from my new audience will not go unappreciated, especially in the way of helpful criticism. Grammar, plot holes, general confusion, every little bit helps. I can edit these later, right? Heh heh, right guys?

HOUSE BARATHEON  
The youngest of the Great Houses, born during the Wars of Conquest. Its founder, Orys Baratheon, was rumored to be Aegon the Dragon's bastard brother. Orys rose through the ranks to become one of Aegon's fiercest commanders. When he defeated the slew Argilac the Arrogant, the last Storm King, Aegon rewarded him with Argilac's castle, lands, and daughter. Orys took the girl to bride, and adopted the banner, honors, and words of her line. The Baratheon sigil is a crowned stag, black on a golden field. Their words are Ours is the Fury.  
KING ROBERT BARATHEON, the First of His Name,  
 His wife, QUEEN CERSEI, of House Lannister,  
 Their children:  
 PRINCE JOFFERY, heir to the Iron Throne, twelve,  
 PRINCESS MYRCELLA, a girl of eight,  
 PRINCE TOMMEN, a boy of seven,  
 His bastards:  
 ARLYSE SNOW, a noble daughter of a lady of House Mormont, raised on Bear Island away from her mother at the husband's request, and the chosen heir of Storm's End,  
 MYA STONE, daughter born in the Vale,  
 BELLA (RIVERS), a prostitute of the Peach, claims to be a bastard of Roberts,  
 GENDRY (WATERS), a Blacksmith's apprentice in Flea Bottom,  
 EDRIC STORM, noble bastard of Robert and Delena Florent,  
 BARRA (WATERS), babe daughter of a prostitute in Chataya's Brothel in King's Landing,  
 He also has a {pair of twins} and nine other known bastards,  
 His brothers:  
 STANNIS BARATHEON, Lord of Dragonstone, master of ships,  
 His wife, LADY SELYSE of House Florent,  
 Their daughter, SHIREEN, a girl of nine,  
 RENLY BARATHEON, Lord of Storm's End, master of law,  
 CORTNAY PENROSE, castellan of Storm's End,  
 EDRIC STORM, ward of Renly Baratheon,  
 His small council:  
 GRAND MAESTER PYCELLE,  
 LORD PETYR BAELISH, called LITTLEFINGER, master of coin,  
 LORD RENLY BARATHEON, master of laws,  
 SER BARRISTAN SELMY, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,  
 VARYS, a eunuch, called the Spider, master of whisperers,  
 STANNIS BARATHEON, master of ships,  
 His court and retainers:  
 SER ILYN PAYNE, the King's Justice, a headsman,  
 SANDOR CLEGANE, called the Hound, sworn shield to Prince Joffrey,  
 JANOS SLYNT, a commoner, commander of the City Watch,  
 JALABHARA XHO, an exiled prince from the Summer Isles,  
 MOON BOY, a jester and fool,  
 LANCEL and TYREK LANNISTER, squires to the king, the queen's cousins,  
 SER ARON SANTAGAR, master-at-arms,  
 His Kingsguard:  
 SER BARRISTAN SELMY, Lord Commander,  
 SER JAIME LANNISTER, called the Kingslayer,  
 SER BOROS BLOUNT,  
 SER MERYN TRANT,  
 SER ARYS OAKHEART,  
 SER PRESTON GREENFIELD,  
 SER MANDON MOORE,

The principal houses sworn to Storm’s End are Buckler, Caron, Connington, Dondarrion, Errol, Estermont, Fell, Mertyns, Morrigen, Selmy, Swann, Tarth, and Wylde. 

The principal houses sworn to Dragonstone are Celtigar, Velaryon, Seaworth, Bar Emmon, and Sunglass.


	2. Eddard Stark I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ball gets rolling with a small council meeting over the fate of the Stormlands. Arlyse does not make an appearance until the next chapter. Starts at the beginning of Season/Book One. I haven't figured out how I'm going to work around the Prince of Asshai prophecy and the Long Night, but they will be very much background plots if anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some universe changes: Brandon Stark is alive and married to Catelyn as originally planned, the Tully-looking children are now theirs, while Arya and Jon are their cousins. Celiria is a cousin of Catelyn's, and the substitute mother of Arya. I wanted to keep her a Tully without having to kill Brandon. And for you Little finger fans, don't worry, he'll still be trouble, just a different kind of trouble.

Ned looks over his youngest daughter’s training session with the Braavosi sword-master. He stood above their heads on the terrace of the neighboring stairway, watching as Arya moved somewhat clumsily, Needle in hand, while Syrio Forel danced in circles around her. The young wolf was no expert, but her sword play had improved greatly from the last time he had seen her train.  
His thoughts drifted back to the conversation he’d had with the King and the small council that morning. `  
…  
Stepping into the room, Ned immediately noticed that most of the company had filled the seats already. Varys, the master of whispers, sat between the elderly Grand Maester Pycelle and Renly Baratheon, the King’s younger brother and master of laws, who has his back to Ned. Varys and Pycelle sat with their back to the open terrace doors on the left. On the other side of the table sat the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard Ser Barristan Selmy and Queen Cersei of House Lannister. The seat between Renly and Ser Barristan was empty, as Lord Baelish had more urgent business to attend to.  
And at the head of the table sat the King himself, Robert Baratheon the First, with a golden crown of stag horns circling his fat brow and a goblet of wine in his hand. Ned was surprised to see Lord Stannis Baratheon sitting in an extra chair beside Ser Barristan. Taking his place to Robert’s left across from Cersei, the meeting finally begins. As the sun reaches the highest point of its journey in the sky, Robert prompts Lord Stannis to speak his piece; Ned finds himself sitting slightly straighter in his seat.  
Stannis and Renly shared a brief glance before the former brother’s gaze returned to his King. “Your Grace. The Houses of the Stormlands are in a state of disarray. With myself ruling from Dragonstone and Renly content to stay in King’s Landing, there is currently no one present in the Stormlands to control the masses.”  
There is a moment of silence from everyone around the table. Silence that is broken by Robert’s chuckling.  
“Doesn’t our dear little brother already have someone standing in his place?” Half of every sentence that ever fell from Robert’s lips rang with condescension, and this was no exception.  
Renly took over his half of the discussion. “My replacement was temporary. No nobles will follow her knowing that she is a lowborn, and some of the more… ambitious houses are beginning to realize that I shall not be returning anytime soon. What the people need is a permanent member of our House in Storm’s End,” he explained.  
“Just return the control of the Houses back to Stannis then,” Robert brushed their concerns off with ease, resting his portly frame back into his seat, the chair squealing in protest.  
“My authority will not carry across the sea from Dragonstone, Robert,” Stannis retorted. “Dondarrion, Tarth, Morrigen, Penrose… the people of those Houses need guidance from a place where justice may be both swift and in person. They need guidance from Storm’s End.”  
Ned recalls a time long before Robert was king, before abductions and insults and the smell of blood and roses, when Ned and Robert were but boys warding in the Vale. It felt so long ago, but Ned remembers a drunken boy of ten-and-three years describing his place of birth, a castle on the shores of Shipbreaker’s Bay, a fortress called Storm’s End.  
“They will not be able to provide the King’s Justice—your Justice—without a Warden,” Ned’s subdued voice seemed to offer the support that the brother Lords needed to convince their King.  
Robert sighed in acquiescence, smoothing the fabric over his tree trunk thighs before downing the remaining wine in his goblet. After commanding his squire to fetch him more wine, he spoke again.  
“Who should be the new Lord Paramount then, if not one of you?” he questioned and gazed around the table at the faces of his council. Ned sat quietly and thought to himself. Varys pitched in about a House that the Easterners would respect most, and Ser Barristan reminded them that putting a new House in power had the potential to completely disrupt the peace. Cersei was quick to suggest members from House Payne—a house loyal to the Lannisters. Ned bristled immediately but was saved from reacting when Robert shot her down. She stormed gracefully from the room, insisting that she had agreed to play with young Tommen at high noon.  
As soon as her steps faded from ear shot, Stannis gestured to speak. “If I may, Your Grace,” he began, “I already have an heir in mind to take up the position.”  
Ned’s eyebrows furrowed, wondering what he was getting at. He continued, “A member of House Baratheon must be the new Lord. And as your second son Tommen is not of age, I believe one of your many bastards must take this inheritance.”  
The whole room was stunned into silence for a few moments, not just at the explicit calling out of Robert’s many bastard children, but the implication that they would be given Lordship. This silence was followed another calm eruption of chatter. What was Stannis thinking? Nobles who couldn’t respect a low-born would not respect a bastard anymore. Or… could they? Ned thought. As long as the new Lord has not just noble blood, but royal blood, would their loyalty be so far-fetched?  
Robert rubbed at his temples, seemingly soothing a headache brought on by the mention of bastards and the noisy reaction from the Council. “Quiet,” he barked, and the room filled with silence once more. Placing his hand on the table, and likely cursing his squire for taking so long, he returned to speaking directly to Stannis.  
“Which one.” Robert seemed intent on Stannis doing all of the thinking for him today.  
“A northern girl by the name of Arlyse. Raised on Bear Island her mother’s House,” Stannis replied.  
Ned skimmed through his memory to recall any knowledge of the bastards on Bear Island. Every one of Lady Maege Mormont’s daughters were fathered by an unknown man. A father that the daughters claimed was a skin-walker, a bear in disguise. Sera Dacey and Alysane were old enough to be considered for lordship, but neither daughter displayed Baratheon characteristics. He couldn’t recall any other bastards, and truly did not believe Maege or Robert would have ever spoken, let alone create a bastard.  
“I don’t believe I’ve ever set foot on Bear Island,” Robert said, growing tired of the run-around.  
“No. Arlyse was mothered by the Mormont wife of Harrion Karstark. The moment she was born, Karstark sent the bastard to live with her grandfather.”  
“And how do you know she is one of mine?”  
“Black of hair, blue eyes, large build. She has been described as bull-headed and skilled with a sword and hammer. Her mother confessed about your tryst to her Lord husband, who did not believe her.”  
Robert rubbed his hands over his face, and waved his hand to dismiss everyone but Ned and his brothers to continue the discussion in private. Ned had been ruminating on the repercussions of giving a bastard lordship, and saw his opportunity to voice them.  
“How exactly did you come by this knowledge, if I may ask?”  
Stannis did not seem affronted at all when he replied “I have a list of all of Robert’s bastards.”  
The question of why this one? Pushed its way into his mind, but his ruminating was swiftly satisfied by Stannis’ continuing.  
“She is the eldest of your brood, a girl of nearly twenty. I had considered, Mya Stone, the one in the Vale, but she shares no more noble blood than her father. Edric was my second choice, but the boy is too young for the lordship, and far too brash at that. The rest share no more importance than a commoner.”  
Ned nodded in agreement. He believed Stannis truly had thought this through, not wanting to waste anyone’s times. As expected, Robert turned to face his Hand for his advice. Quick to back up their claim, Ned said “In the North, generation after generation there has always been a Stark in Winterfell. Anything less would leave all of the North unprotected. It stands to reason that the same principle is held in the Stormlands.”  
Robert rubbed at his furry chin in consideration, swirling the new wine in his goblet with his other hand. After a time, Robert dismissed the remaining members of the council insisting that he needed time to think about his options before making a final decision. Ned couldn’t shake the feeling what his old friend was considering involved the possibility of stirring trouble with his wife and, by association, the richest man in Westeros, Tywin Lannister.  
…  
Ned was disturbed from his revelations by the triumphant noises coming from below his perch. Arya had managed to land a decent blow to Syrio, who gave her a verbal pat on the back and told her that they would continue training on the morrow. Catching his daughter’s Stark blue eyes with his, he smiled with as much encouragement as he could muster. He knew it worked when her smile widened, and she was climbing the ledge to the terrace and standing by his side before he could blink. And blink he did, absent mindedly wrapping his hand around her shoulder and setting them both on the path back to the Hand’s apartments.  
Along the short stroll to their new place of residence, Ned listened distractedly to Arya telling him about water dancing, and that the next day’s training would consist of more cat chasing. The man was glad that his daughter had found something that interested her more than vexing her sister and the girl’s tutor Septa Mordane. The path ended, not quite so unexpectedly, with Robert Baratheon. He stood and seemed to be waiting for Ned’s arrival, accompanied by Jory Cassel. Arya’s voice trailed off and she looked up at her father.  
“Go on then, girl,” he spoke softly, “back to your room. I’ll join you for supper soon.”  
Arya bowed her head in greeting to the King as she passed him. Stepping up to Robert, Ned waited for the King to command him.  
“Walk with me.”  
…  
Strolling through the castle gardens, Robert finally broke the long, solemn silence they’d endured.  
“So, what do you think of all this… bastard business, eh Ned?”  
Ned gave some thought before he answered.  
“I think it’s a good idea, but the lords of the Storlands will have a hard time listening to a woman, let alone a bastard. The girl, and by extent the lords, will have an easier time adjusting to the new Lord Paramount if she is naturalized,” it was a bold statement, but a necessary and honest one.  
Out of the corner of his eye, Ned watched his old friend shake his head in amusement. The small chuckle that escaped his rounded belly sounded hesitant, however, and Ned knew exactly what words were going to come out of his mouth next.  
“I believe my loving wife will not approve of the decision.”  
Ned knew the truth behind the words: her wealthy lord father would not approve. The Quiet Wolf chose silence, and they continued their journey in a circle back towards the castle.  
“A Baratheon will receive more respect than a Snow, however.” The sigh that escaped Ned almost startled him. He was not aware that he was holding his own breath.  
The two men slowed to a stop beside a stout oak. The branches reached from the short trunk, thick and twisted and bearing leaves so green they made Ned’s eyes water. He was glad to be sheltered in the thicket of green, where the light was not so harsh on the senses. Ned more felt than saw Robert turn towards him for a final say.  
“Your bastard, what is he called again?” My bastard… what does he have to do with all of this?  
“Jon Snow, my lord,” the question was on his tongue, but Ned did not ask.  
“Another Snow, eh? Why not have him naturalized as well? Save me the trouble of doing it later.” Robert appeared certain that Ned would want his only son to be named a Stark, if not soon, then someday.  
And why not now? Ned had had every intention of asking Robert to make Jon a true Stark, but when he’d been wed to Celiria of House Tully, he had decided not to dishonor her by giving Jon his name. Ned’s heart twisted in his chest as he remembered his late wife. The sickening smell of blood had ripped forth memories of his Lyanna, as Celiria had died bring Arya into the world. Nine years passed, and Ned is not remarried, nor has anything stopping him from following through.  
Ned did not struggle to smile as he had earlier that day and took Robert’s offer.  
He was surprised, however, to find that they had walked all the way back to his apartments. Robert left with a bland farewell, and Ned was alone. He could only imagine the complete shock the bastard woman will experience when she discovers her new responsibilities as Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written up Chapter 2 yet, but when I do it'll be up post-haste, and the next three chapters will be written and released in a more timely manner. I'll be going back to school starting September 25th, so I need to utilize what little free time I have now to get ahead of the game.


	3. Arlyse Snow I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something cool about the frozen hearts of Northern men who can feel, I don't know. 
> 
> A raven arrives at Mormont Keep. The message it carries will give one bastard more power than she has ever known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a fool. I didn't realize I'd clicked "edit chapter" instead of "add chapter," so whatever this was previously has been lost forever as far as I'm concerned.

An arrow whizzed past the ear of a fleeing woman, landing deep into the trunk of a skinny white Aspen. Despite the very real danger, boisterous laughter erupted from the full lips of the woman and echoed through the canopy of snow-covered evergreens. She lost her pursuer in the thick, dead brush, climbing a steep slope to crouch behind the cover of a broad cedar and a tangle of dry brambles. She calmly held her breath to stop the white puffs of air from giving away her hiding spot.  
Moments later, a man in black leather wandered into view, close enough for the woman to see the furrow of his ginger brow and the wooden bow hanging limply in his cold-stiffened hands. As he passed beneath her perch, she attacked. With a screech of gleeful mania, Arlyse leaped towards him and clocked the startled man in his temple. He roared furiously as he hit the ground, and stared daggers at her towering form.  
“Are you mad?! You nearly broke my fucking jaw!” he screeched. The indignant huffing noise that escaped Arlyse made her chest ache briefly.  
“How can you complain about your jaw when you nearly pierced my skull, you cunt. That was no practice arrow, I saw it. I’ll break any part of you I like; you could have killed me, bastard!”  
“The only bastard here is you,” he mumbled under his breath, stumbling to his feet and clutching his face. She made no move to respond, instead stepping towards him and ripping the quiver from his back to examine the arrows. Most of the tips ended in the wood of the shaft, but she counted five components with the signature arrowheads tied to the ends. Still irritated, Arlyse fisted her hand into the heavy cloth of his long cloak and raised her fist to deliver a second, well-deserved blow when she heard the distant call of a battle horn. The low-toned bellowing struck a bolt of ice through her core, and blue eyes met wild green. She relinquished her hold on his cloak and they sprinted together towards the alarm sound.  
Neither stopped running when they reached their makeshift camp, only Arylse slowed to sweep the borrowed longsword from where it rested again a tree stump. She quickly caught up to Bryce, the red-haired archer, and overtook him with her powerful stride. She prayed to the Warrior for strength, the Mother for mercy, and the Father for kindness to those who would not be spared in the coming battle.  
…  
The two young, frantic warriors reached the village in time to find… nothing amiss. Where was the danger? Where were the raging bears or the Wilding invaders? Who had sent the call for help when there was no help to be needed?  
Confusion painted Bryce’s face as he looked to Arlyse for answers, but she could only shrug and slow to a breathless walk. They passed by angry looking villagers, some of whom Arlyse recognized. Corrad the Butcher stood with Gurner Warth and his son Adin were talking in hushed, angry voices, making Arlyse suspect some mischief was the cause of the alarm. The ire of the Corrad was normally a source of joy for the bastard. The sight of dozens of annoyed people almost had Arlyse laughing, until the sight of Merry Mersy, the Butcher’s wife, comforting her brood of crying children put a damper on her mirth.  
At last, the two found a gathering of disgruntled men and women at the center of the village. Bryce and Arlyse fought their way through the throng to get a better look at the cause of the commotion. There stood Maege Mormont, the lady of Bear Island. Arylse was so star struck at being so close to the She-Bear she almost didn’t notice the three young girls beneath. The brushing weight on her shoulder told her that Bryce leaned towards her to whisper in her ear. She was proven right when his breath brushed the dark wisps of hair around her ear.  
“Those are Lady Mormont’s youngest,” he said, “Lyra, Jorelle, Lyanna. I can’t tell who’s who, though.”  
Arlyse had had her fill of nosing around and retreated from the crowd. It wasn’t long before Bryce was back at her side.  
“You just left me,” was all he could muster. She ignored his whining and turned the conversation to a more interesting topic.  
“Who is the oldest?”  
Bryce’s face twisted like he’d smelled bog water. “Beg your pardon?”  
She repeated herself word for word, patronizingly slow this time.  
“Well technically Dacey is the oldest, but I assume you meant of the trio. In this case, it’s Lyra. Lyanna is the youngest at seven years.”  
“Lyra’s quite the troublemaker, I see.” They had returned to the Butcher’s shop, a wooden shack with enormous slabs of boar and buck meat hanging to dry. Merry Mersy held the youngest of her babes, a girl Arlyse had seen crawling in the grass minutes ago. Feeling weak little arms try to circle her thighs, she looked down to see a boy of about four smiling up at her. She petted his soft curls and returned his smile, gently pulling him off of her legs and directing him back to his mother.  
Bryce waited until they had reached the outskirts of the village before he spoke again.  
“What did you mean when you said ‘Lyra’s a troublemaker’?”  
Didn’t you see her?” Arlyse recounted the mischievous trio. “Jorelle had nearly been cowering behind Lyra, who stood at the front of the pack almost defiantly. She didn’t look the slightest bit remorseful. Even little Lyanna seemed somewhat chastised, even if she wasn’t hiding like Jory.”  
She could finally see the light of understanding flicker in his eyes. She could tell he wasn’t sure exactly how she’d come to figuring out what happened as neither of them had been listening to what Lady Mormont had actually been saying to anyone. Arlyse merely caught his eye and shrugged, saying  
“I’m just good at reading people, I suppose.”  
Bryce seemed satisfied and looked ahead of them. They were stopped in their tracks by the sound of the woman being called behind them.  
Arlyse patted his shoulder and motioned with her head for him to head back to their makeshift camp and clean up. She met old Bard Woodfoot halfway in a clearing between the edge of the village and the thicket. Bard was a tall man, but Arylse was tall too, and nearly eye to eye with the tower of the man. She estimated him to be half of a hand above her.  
“Something I can do for you, my lord?” Arlyse bowed respectfully.  
“I am no lord, little Snow, but I am amused by your flattery. There was a raven arrived at Mormont Keep today,” he said. “A raven… for you.”  
…  
The parchment felt surreal in her hands, and she still didn’t quite believe the words on it. But she’d seen the broken seal. A crowned stag in gold wax. She was sitting in the long wooden hall of Mormont Keep with Lady Maege, Old Woodfoot, castellan Tylar Osgrey, and her grandfather Grayves. Her hands trembled and the sounds of the fire crackled distractingly from the hearth. They all seemed to be waiting for her to say something, as no one had spoken since she’d been handed the message. A thousand and one questions raced through her mind as the others continued to stare. Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she said “what… why does the King want me?”  
The renewed silence rang deafeningly in her ear.  
“Perhaps you should go and find out for yourself.” It was Bard who had spoken, but Arlyse looked towards Lady Maege instead. The She-Bear kept her expression neutral, but her eyes betrayed her interest. Arlyse looked to Grayves for help, pleading for any kind of explanation. He could only offer her a look of sympathy in return. She’d heard the rumor—of course she had—of Fryda Karstark’s claim. That the newly crowned king Robert Baratheon had gifted her a daughter a moon before she wed Harrion. No one had believed Fryda, not her husband, not her father, not her daughter, and especially not the King, as the rumor had died before it reached the Riverlands.  
Brows as dark and jagged as Dragon glass furrowed above sunken, tired eyes, and Arlyse couldn’t help but compare the sable fur to the dirty snow on his head. Grayves Mormont caught his granddaughter’s gaze and quickly tossed his eyes first towards the massive oak wood doors, and back to her.  
Arlyse dropped her gaze to the dark wood at her chest before she spoke again. “May I… may I have some privacy, my Lady? I… I need… I’m afraid-”  
Maege held her hand up, effectively silencing the bastard’s stuttering. She left as silently as she had been the entire meeting, the soft sound of thick cloth against steel armor and leather somehow louder than her footsteps. Castellan Osgrey and old Bard followed shortly, while Grayves disappeared behind the opposite doors. Arlyse decided she was too warm and left her dark green cloak on the chair inside.  
As soon as she reached her grandfather’s side on the terrace, she leaned her head against Grayves’ furred collar. The cold from the air seeped through the thick layers of her leather doublet and sheepskin tunic, making Arlyse feel sticky and unclean, yet the cool washing over her skin relieved the aching of her temples.  
“Robert of House Baratheon,” Arlyse recited with her cheek pressed to his shoulder, “The First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm summons the bastard Arlyse Snow to King’s Landing, to bend the knee, and to become the new Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.”  
“That’s quite the title, Little Bear.” The woman cringed to hear a pet name she knew was not always hers. “One I don’t believe you can politely turn down.”  
The woman huffed and removed herself, choosing to stand closer to the polished wooden railing.  
“What could bring a King to summon a— his bastard and grant her lordship over a land that she has never set foot on?”  
A gentle, familiar weight pressed on her shoulder before Grayves replied.  
“Perhaps there is no one else to take on this responsibility. Perhaps… he wishes to give you the home and the family you never had. He is your father, after all.”  
A father who has waited two-and-twenty years to acknowledge his child. She was no true-born, but she was his blood. Had he only just discovered her, or had he known of her all along? So many questions burrowed under her skin and boiled her blood. The feel of the cold air receded from her bones and could only be felt on her breeze-reddened nose and cheeks.  
The fire in her chest was unexpectedly accompanied by a flicker of something yet unknown. Arlyse recalled meeting a solemn lad of nine, with hair like rosewood and dark gray eyes so much like his fathers. Jon must be nearly four-and-ten by now. She had spoken to him at a feast in Winterfell, the baseborn son of Lord Eddard Stark himself. If the noble Warden of the North could smile as kindly at his bastard as he did his daughters, what was to stop the King from doing the same? They were friends once, were they not? Surely, they must have something in common. But there lie another problem she had yet to address.  
“I know nothing of lordship, grandfather.” Another icy wave through her back as the words left her mouth.  
“You will learn in time, Little Bear. And besides,” her grandfather smiled softly, “I’ve never known you to shy away from a challenge.”  
Well, he had her there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still an idiot. Hello. I think I put something here about not putting up the next chapter up until I have at least three written out beforehand?


	4. Eddard Stark II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hand of the King takes a few hours off to enjoy some time with his children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moron of the month here. New note to self: update save file to include all chapter information, including title, publish date, summary, and beginning and end notes.   
> Also, I lied about not posting this until chapter 5/6 is written up. This chapter was short, but MAN is the next one a doozy. But regardless, the next chapter should be up by next Wednesday at the earliest, and I'll use the next week to write up the following chapter. Enjoy the Stark fluff, because we got some angst coming up.

Ned was awoken by the feeling of cool fingers dancing on his forehead. His eyes fluttered open at the sound of stifled giggles and a surprised yelp. Eyes at last adjusted to the weak light creeping into the room via the crack in the wooden window panels, the slap of skin on the hard floor told him that the intruder was making a poor attempt to hide from him. He mustered all of his waking energy into his voice, but only managed a mild grumble.  
The sound was too much for the hidden, and the room erupted in laughter to reveal not one but two intruders laying near his bedside. He recognized both sounds instantly, groggily rolled on his side and peered over the bed’s edge to find his son Jon holding his young sister to his chest and resting on his back. The joyful tears streaming down their cheeks and mirthful faces pulled the corners of their father’s mouth upwards.  
By the time the laughter settled into strenuous panting, Ned was finally awake enough to sit up on his furs and lift little Arya from Jon’s arms.  
“This is quite the wakeup call. To what do I owe the occasion?”  
Arya was still trying to catch her breath in his lap, so Jon, who’d chosen to stay on the floor, answered instead.  
“You promised to show us around King’s Landing,” Jon said, Ned wanted to pretend not to see the twinkling in his eyes.  
“I don’t think that—“  
“Please, father,” Arya spoke up, “it’s been three moons since we came here, and we’ve never left the Keep.”  
“I seem to recall you chasing cats through Flea Bottom days ago.”  
“It’s not the same. We want to see the Dragonpit and the bones of the old Targaryen beasts!”  
The somber, pleading faces of his children reminded him of starving, lonely wolf pups. A promise is a promise, Ned supposed. His work as the Hand of the King had slowed considerably since Robert’s minor sobering, he supposed the man wouldn’t fall apart without his guidance for a few hours. Standing, he placed Arya on her feet and offered a hand up to Jon.  
“Alright then. Where would you like to visit first?”  
…  
Standing in the black dungeon halls of the Red Keep, Ned couldn’t say he was surprised. Of course, Arya had demanded dragon skulls, and Jon hadn’t disagreed. A few wall torches were lit as the small entourage had found a decent pile of bones. The fire barely cut through the thick darkness, so Arya was crouched by the pile with her own torch in hand. She was currently showing Jon the piece of jawbone she’d found, one with several rows of razor sharp teeth still attached to it. Varys had joined them after offering to lead them to the best spots in the dungeons for beastly remains. Ned made his way a short distance to stand beside Varys while keeping his eye on the children as Jon showed Arya a dagger sized tooth lodged into a broken chunk of bone.  
“Thank you, Varys. I had my doubts about coming down here, but I have yet to see any human corpses since we have arrived,” Ned said quietly, hoping Varys would be in a talkative mood and explain how it could be. He got his wish, for once.  
“Yes. You see, when one knows every corner of this castle, even the parts that Maegor the Cruel had tried so hard to keep secret, one can navigate in such a way as to avoid any… unpleasant encounters.”  
Ned was very grateful for Varys’ knowledge and forethought. Neither Jon nor Arya were ready to experience that horror for quite some time. The two children were currently talking amongst themselves. Jon wore a black jerkin over a light grey tunic, an unused scabbard on his hip. The cuff of his tunic had running wolves beautifully embroidered onto them courtesy of his cousin Sansa. Arya had currently pulled her layered skirts over her hose covered knees so she could get closer to the ground, and the dark blue overdress folded back to reveal the light blue linen usually only visible at her throat and wrists. The light from the torch at their backs glinted on the girl’s skinny sword Needle, which was shoved haphazardly into the thin strip of leather around the girl’s waist. Perhaps Arya could use a scabbard of her own, Ned thought, especially if she was going to insist on bringing the little sword everywhere. Speaking of gifts…  
“Varys, would you excuse us for a moment? I need to speak with my children.”  
The master of whispers dipped his head. “I shall return to show you the way out. I’m sure your son will rejoice at the news” The man exited swiftly and silently. Of course, he already knew. Ned decided that that was an issue for another time.  
“Jon,” Ned called. The boy didn’t hesitate to leave the pile of dragon bones. Smoothing down his jerkin, he stood two hands shorter than his lord father, but at four-and-ten he had plenty of time still to grow.  
“Perhaps by now you have heard of what was discussed at the last meeting of the Small Council,” it was a question, but not entirely rhetorical.  
“The King is bringing his bastard to King’s Landing,” Jon answered. “He is going to make him the Lord of the Stormlands.”  
Ned nodded, as he had said some of the story right. “Do you remember Arlyse Snow?” Newly raised eyebrows and a loosened jaw told him he was correct.  
“She is joining Tyrion and Ser Jaime Lannister’s party on their way back from the Wall. They’ll be returning with her and your cousins in tow in a moon’s time to legitimize her as Robert’s own.”  
“Bran and Robb are coming?” Arya piped in excitedly, startling her brother at her sudden appearance.  
“Yes,” Ned chuckled and didn’t miss the look on Jon’s face at the piece of information. “And Arlyse will not be the only bastard receiving a bill of legitimacy, either.”  
He stared directly into his son’s eyes and saw them water heavily. Dark grey swam beneath the wetness until Jon couldn’t hold them back, and the pools overflowed. In his joy, Jon slammed into his father’s chest and wrapped his arms in a death grip around his barrel chest. The hug was greeted with a return of arms and a delightful squeal as Arya finally caught on to the meaning of his words.  
…  
Varys returned as he said he would not long after the merry bonding had taken place to lead them out of the dungeon. Ned walked beside the stout man, and couldn’t help but overhear Jon and Arya’s echoing whispers. The boy had taken his sister upon his back, careful not to be stuck accidentally with Needle.  
“Did you see the letter from the raven this morning,” Arya asked.  
“I heard about it. From Lady Catelyn?”  
“No, from Sansa. She said she’s coming to King’s Landing to marry Prince Joffrey, and that they are bringing you and me gifts.”  
“I don’t like that Joffrey, he’s a twat,” Jon whispered back and stifled his giggling when Ned looked back sternly at him.  
“Watch your mouth, boy.”  
“Yes, father.” Ned missed the whispers from Arya but knew the words couldn’t have been appropriate with the snickering that followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you guess what the gifts are? I'll give you a hint: this is season/book 1. Honestly, I reread this note and could not for the life of me remember what the heck I was talking about until I rewatched an old episode.  
> I will also point out that Lord "He may be your father, but he ain't your daddy" Stark refers to Jon as his son in his head. I can't remember if this is true in the book, I'm at "Tyrion's Trial by combat in the Vale" chapter, but I'm sure he has occasional lapses when thinking about his sister's son (show confirmed, so I am applying it to this story too).  
> Needle's existence and Ned as Hand of the King have been hastened and will be explained later on in the story: not because I haven't figured it out yet, but I know I can work it into the story instead of telling you here in the notes.


	5. Arlyse Snow II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A feast and a few goodbyes. Some are more sorrowful than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday night counts as Wednesday right? Well, it does now. Hello friends, next chapter about Arlyse's journey south will probably be shorter and the last baby step before she arrives. That is to say that the next time you see Arlyse after the Tyrion chapter (spoilers), she'll FINALLY be where she's been heading this whole time and the story can begin.  
> Also, I guess even on Wednesdays when I only have two classes and no work to deal with I still struggle to find time for myself and my stories. This chapter was a pain to type up, so many ideas and so little time for characterization, but I think I made it work for the most part. Whelp, time to get some sleep before I have to get up in four hours. Yay, morning classes…

The snow here in Winterfell was nothing like the heavy blanket that covered every inch of Bear Island. Arlyse pulled as much of the chilled air into her lungs as possible before exhaling slowly to watch the thick billowy cloud of breath disappear into the wind. Her thighs were chaffed maddeningly from the days of riding, but spying the formidable fortress of the Stark home distracted her from the discomfort. The young warrior looked to her companions to see the same faces of relief from everyone.  
Her excitement was still doused in the fear of traveling thousands of miles from home to become the Lady of a place she’d never been over people she’d never met. What would they think of their new lord? How long will it take for them to come to accept the new leader? How long before they became violent and betrayed her?  
She unknowingly looked to her grandfather for support. His brown eyes were set on the ice-covered gates before them and didn’t notice the girl’s head turn. Or, as she looked a little longer, his gaze seemed to be set beyond the fortress. The recollection of a place in the north called Karhold came to mind, and she looked past Grayves to their west side. Of course. He wasn’t thinking about the wooden halls of home or the spring heated stone of Winterfell. He was doing his best not to look to the east, where his only daughter had been spirited away to. Arlyse decided it was best not to disturb him, and looked to the other members of her party instead.  
Tylar Osgrey road beside Lyra and Jora Mormont’s horse, as the younger had insisted on sharing. Little Lyanna rode a spotted grey Garron very similar to her sisters’ Stot horse, which trotted on the other side of Lady Maege’s white Garron. The group had taken the lead, leisurely followed by Grayves and Arlyse, while Bryce, old Bard and his young niece trailed in the back of the entourage. Looking back at Bryce, the woman saw the sour look on his face, like he was upset that she was leaving. But she recalled the bad fruit he’d found on their journey, and presumed as he’d been the only one to eat it, he was starting to feel the effects of it, especially by the way he clutched at his stomach through his jerkin and leaned off his horse.  
Reaching the North Gate of Winterfell, Arlyse was stunned. She had thought that the magnificence of the castle from the visit in her youth wouldn’t hold up. She could see now that she was wrong. All members of the party craned their necks back to see the guards at the top of the wall. The towering wooden gate doors creaked open, slowly revealing the Stark family surrounded by the rest of the household. Lord Brandon Stark and Lady Catelyn stood proudly with their brood of red-haired children waiting to receive their guests. Arlyse may not have known much about the Great houses, hell, she couldn’t even tell the members of her own house apart. But she had heard enough stories about the Starks to last her a lifetime. She had Bryce and his sister Ollira to thank for that. The woman had lots of time to look at each of the young wolves.  
By the side of the tall, handsome Warden himself stood the heir of Winterfell, Robb Stark. His Tully red locks couldn’t disguise the long Stark features he’d gotten from his father. Remembering Jon Snow, Arlyse couldn’t help but wonder if the two boys shared any resemblance.  
The tall girl standing next to him could be none other than Sansa, who was as beautiful as Bryce’s fantasies. The eldest of the Stark daughters held the hand of the youngest, dark haired Lyanne, who was playfully elbowing her brother Bran in a fight. Searching for the babe didn’t take long as Rickon was clutching the soft blue skirts of his mother.  
The party dismounted before Lord Brandon began welcoming them to the castle. As Lady Maege introduced the soon to be Lady Paramount of the Stormlands, Arlyse felt a warmth that spread from her cheeks to her ears and down to her toes and fingers. She didn’t need to look around to know that every eye was on her at the mention of her name. A shivering presence pressed into her side, and seeing Bryce’s fiery hair out of the corner of her eye, she knew it wasn’t him. As soon as the conversation diverted from her, she glanced behind herself. What she found were honey blonde curls framing a round face that smiled brightly despite the chattering of her teeth. Linly Ambers had been silent the entire trip from Bear Island to Mormont Keep, only speaking in hushed whispers to her uncle Bard and occasionally smiling whenever she caught Arylse looking her way. House Ambers was known for its unusually… friendly womenfolk.  
She returned a lopsided grin, and by the time she tuned into the Lord of Winterfell’s introduction, the gathered crowd had gone back to their daily work and Lady Maege was following Brandon presumably to the Guesthouse. Arlyse wrapped her arm around the shivering girl and the two women trailed behind. The stone work in the castle was perhaps the woman’s favorite part of the place. On Bear Island, everything from barns to noble homes is made from wood, including Mormont Keep.  
“Is it true,” Linly’s voice held a surprising melody even when she whispered. “Are you really the King’s daughter?”  
“Bastard,” Arlyse corrected her, feeling no sting to the words.  
“Not for much longer, I suppose.” She sounded hopeful, as if she was trying to cheer her new friend up. Whatever gratitude the warrior felt was stomped in half by the bitter grunt she returned.  
“Once a bastard, always a bastard. Long after the children of Westeros have come and gone, when the castles and cities men have built crumble and fade, a bastard will still be a bastard.”  
…  
After the Starks had shown the party to their rooms, they invited everyone to a feast that night. Arlyse was sharing her room with Linly Ambers and the She-Bear’s brood. The young bears were off playing with the young wolves, while the eldest of the group got comfortable until dinner. Sitting on the edge of the unoccupied bed, the bastard examined the practice sword she’d sharpened back on Bear Island, looking for any signs of rust as it had been left in the snow for hours during the false raid. Looking to Linly, Arylse felt a little nervous in her worn, undyed tunic, black wool trousers, and leather battle skirts.  
Linly stroked the corn yellow linen of her underdress at her throat and brushed the fabric of her red bodice. The faded top fabric was open on the sides to reveal more yellow, including the embroidered orange flames at the hem. She laid down across the bed the two would be sharing and propped her head upon her hand. The shivering had ceased once she’d gotten inside the Guesthouse, where heat seeped in through the walls. Her honeyed hair looked as dark as her honeyed eyes in the candlelight, and she was silhouetted by the fading daylight creeping through the cracks of the closed window.  
“I’ll be trading red for green soon, I think,” She said. Arlyse wriggled her nose in confusion.  
“I think you look lovely in red, why change?” She offered what she hoped were encouraging words. Linly merely giggled, the thick apple of her cheeks forcing her eyes closed with the width of her smile.  
“We change our banners as daughters, don’t we? You are on your way to King’s Landing, and I am on my way to marry my betrothed in White Harbor. I am told that my marriage to Ser Wendel Manderly will help my family gain political leverage on the mainland.”  
“And I have heard that Ser Wendel is a very loud, very… large man who wields a bow and, I am told, is very brave.” In truth, she had heard the second son of Lord Manderly described usually in distaste. Though not as portly as his father or as old as his brother, the man has a notable girth and surpassed even the King in age. Linly was merely seven and ten, and must have dreamed her husband as the most handsome knight. But something in Linly’s eyes told her she only need listen a little longer to know the truth of things.  
“I will do my duties as a wife to Ser Wendel, and spend my days gossiping with his nieces.” His nieces? Linly rolled to her back and crossed her arms behind her head and continued.  
“Wynafred, I hear, is as bold as she is beautiful, and Wylla has a bit of a wild streak. Did you know her hair is green? Outrageous.” She laughed. Arlyse was starting to suspect the friendliness of House Amber’s women went further than most think.  
The exhaustion of riding for days finally hit her, and Arlyse’s limbs felt heavier than ever before. Setting the sword aside for it had no scabbard, she motioned for Linly to scoot over and crawled into the bed next to her. She closed her eyes, hoping to get some rest before supper, but Linly seemed to have other plans.  
“I saw you with that Timber boy. Do you know him well?”  
Arlyse knew what she meant. “Bryce is my friend. I have known him since he was as tall as a shrub. A real asshole now, but as mates go, he’s solid.”  
“So, you never wanted to marry him?”  
“Gods no, marry that scrawny little git? Bryce on his best day is insufferable and never talks about the girls he fancies with any respect, mind you. I have no interest in boys of five and ten who act as unpolite as babes.”  
“Doesn’t sound like you like him very much as all.” Linly seemed mildly perturbed at the way Arlyse spoke about Bryce.  
“Beggars cannot be choosers, Linly. Bastards don’t have friends, and I am fortunate enough that Bryce’s arrogance and egotism didn’t affect his loyalty and humor. Aside from my Grandfather, there won’t be many people I miss from Bear Island. Bryce and Ollira Timber will surely be the other two.”  
When the blonde spitfire didn’t respond, Arlyse turned her head towards her a peeked open her drooping eyes. Linly’s gentle smile caused the warrior to raise her brow.  
“What?”  
“Will you miss me,” she asked coyly. The laugh bubbling up in Arlyse’s throat made Linly smack her chest with her hand, but she too was giggling.  
“Yes, sweet Fire, I will miss you. I wish I could know you more than a week, you are very much like your uncle. Old Bard was always kind to me.”  
Linly joined in with a chuckle, and when the mirth died down, both women closed their eyes and slept until supper.  
…  
Hours into the feast, Arlyse found herself more warm and well fed than she could ever remember being. She sat with Bryce, Linly, and Bard at a table near the Lord’s. Bryce was gorging himself on every piece of meat and cheese he could get his hands on, Bard had been making sure that everyone else ate before him, and Linly was too busy gossiping with the other girls at the table to eat. She had saved Arlyse from joining the conversation by redirecting their attention several times, to which the bastard was thankful. The peace didn’t last when she saw her grandfather searching desperately through the crowd for something or someone. His dejected eyes met Arlyse’s, and he slipped out of the hall as quietly as a ghost.  
Excusing herself from the table, she tracked the fresh prints in the new snow to the Glass Gardens. Returning to the warmth of the indoors, Arlyse breathed in the scent of lilacs, lavender, and other unfamiliar flowers. She found Grayves hovering over the white blossom of Alpine Strawberries. He petted the smallest of the flowers causing one of the fragile petals to break and fall to the stonework floor. He stood with the might of a broken man and faced the last gift from his Fryda.  
“Are you enjoying the feast, Little Bear?” He asked, but the twitching in his fingers suggested he’d brought her out here for a different reason. One she most certain she wouldn’t like.  
“It’s fine,” she said, her patience running thin and her nerves on end. Grayves didn’t move on right away, instead, he glanced around the room as if looking for another distraction. He gave up when she sighed harshly, regaining his attention.  
“Fryda… your mother. I thought she would be here, perhaps she would come to… see you off. But I did not find her, that Karstark must have forced her to stay home.” His words were agonizingly slow, each one a pinprick piercing her thick skin.  
“I have to return to Bear Island. I can go no further on your journey south. I am an old man, and you are starting a new life. I wish you well.” With those words, he brushed past her and patted her shoulder one last time.  
So many emotions rose from her chest and forced her hands to turn to fists. Annoyance that he had only come to see his coward daughter. Anger that he had lied and claimed he was here for her instead of her weak-willed mother. Disappointment that he would rather spend his final years in solitude than join his blood, the only family he has left in the south. And sadness that he did not, could not see her as his family. Bile rose into her throat, and Arlyse did her best not to storm out of the beautiful garden with ash in her mouth. The blood drained from her knuckles, the muscles in her arms and legs tensed, and the freezing air outside did nothing to cool the fire in her blood. Fryda was wise to stay at home in Karhold.  
…  
Arlyse didn’t remember where she had gone after leaving the Glass gardens, but when the late fall had finally tempered her rage, she realized she was on her way back to her room. She cracked the door open, hating every tiny squeak of the hinges, and stepped into the crowded room. To her left, Lyanna lay squished between her sisters, all holding each other beneath the heavy furs and blankets. Arlyse stripped down to her tunic and climbed weakly into Linly’s bed, careful not to wake her. She closed her eyes and exhaustion dragged her down into the black, weightless abyss.  
…  
Warm arms woke the woman from the dreamless black after what felt like mere seconds.  
“You’re freezing,” they whispered, and drew her shivering form closer to more heat, burning almost painfully like fire on her chilled skin. “Where were you, Arlyse? You left during the feast and never came back and now you’re deathly cold.”  
Linly’s lips were pressed against the woman’s hairline, and stiff hands balled into the folds of a white chemise were all that the warrior could see. Arlyse mumbled something, and tears escaped her eyes before the black took her again.  
…  
Lord Tyrion and Ser Jaime Lannister arrived early in the morning around dawn. The youngest of the party from Bear Island were scrambling to get a look at the Golden Lion and his Imp brother.  
Arlyse had politely declined to join them and was instead watching the guards train. Some of the more inexperienced guards had muddy boot prints on their clothes, and one boy swung his sword so pitifully it was smacked out of his hands and halfway across the yard before he earned his first kick in the gut. The substitute master-at-arms was a little cruel for their liking, but the men all seemed to be plotting their revenge in silence. The wooden fence the woman had perched on had only just started to feel sore when a familiar whistle drew her attention away from the sparing.  
The She-Bear nodded her head, signaling that the time to leave for King’s Landing was now. She saddled her borrowed horse, a Palfrey this time, but as reddish brown as the last. She was very pretty, and taller than any horse in the group. Arlyse thanked the Gods for her unusually tall stature and specifically long legs. Rickon and young Bran were sitting on the stable dividers while the servants were getting ready to join the Lannister party, and Rickon had pointed to her horse and said Squirrel.  
“Her name isn’t actually Squirrel, it’s Apple.” Bran corrected. Arlyse smiled in thanks to Bran and pinched Rickon’s cheek gently.  
“I promise I’ll take care of her until she returns.”  
She excused herself and walked to the Hall hoping to find leftover food as she’d skipped breakfast that morning. Instead, she found a band of familiar faces waiting, apparently for her.  
Bryce, Linly, Grayves, and old Bard stood or sat around a table with Lord Brandon, each of them with their hands hidden. Seeing the Lord of Winterfell had her on her feet immediately, but she avoided gazing at her grandfather as best she could.  
“My Lord,” she bowed her head and kept her eyes on him as the others shuffled their feet on the warm stone floor. Lord Stark’s smile was somehow gentle and strong simultaneously.  
“Arlyse, your friend Bryce sent me a raven from Mormont Keep before you left requesting a… special gift be made by our blacksmith Mikken. A goodbye present, I presume. The others have gifts of their own that they’d like you to take with you on your journey.”  
Sky eyes met grassy orbs, and Bryce smiled more mischievously than she was expecting. But he made no move to reveal the gift, and Grayves stepped forward instead. She had no choice but to look at him, and felt not the anger from the night before but the disappointment instead. He pulled from his pocket an ebony hairpin with a carving of a fierce bear and tiny emerald stones for eyes.  
He pressed her back to sit her down and began undoing the lazy plait it had been in.  
“This pin was your mothers,” he said, “she had hair soft like the finest silk, and tresses so brown they glowed gold as the sun set.”  
He frowned at the two smaller plaits in her hair, but left them alone and took the coarse, black mess and twisted it on top of her head. She knew he was trying desperately to give her something, anything to remember her mother by, but it seemed the girl would never know Fryda Karstark’s face as more than a faded memory not her own and would never live up to it either.  
“I used to pin up her hair every morning after her fifth name day. I could never get the strands by her ears to stay back, though. They curled like perfect springs.”  
When the pin slid into her hair, she felt a lump in her throat and dug her nails deep into the skin of her palm, but she kept her expression neutral even as the light dusting of color rose in her whole face. She turned her back to the others and faced her grandfather and could already feel the frizzy wisps at her ears escaping the confines of her new style. Grayves gave her a weak grimace, barely a smile.  
“Sometimes I think you look just like her.” Arlyse swallowed hard, blinked, and straightened up from her seat before thanking him for the gift.  
She couldn’t look at him anymore, so she walked around the table to Linly’s and Bard sitting together. Old Bard stood and opened his arms to receive her, and she slid into them with ease, squeezing the leather covering his chest and feeling the strength returned in his embrace. She couldn’t resist peering around his shoulder to find her grandfather’s black cloak already disappearing around the open doorway. Releasing each other, Linly stood to reveal a parchment in her lap and gingerly handed it to the woman. Arlyse took it and stared at the image sketched on it.  
“Lady Stark gave it to us. She said that after your father had been crowned, he’d come to Winterfell one last time to ask Lord Brandon’s brother Eddard Stark to join him in King’s Landing. She told us that a traveling bard had painted the King as he arrived,” Linly explained, smiling so hard Arlyse thought she might her skin might split to reveal that the girl was truly just sunlight trapped in flesh.  
A strong man in ornate armor stood dashingly beside a man of equal youth with Stark like features. A rampant black stag was visible on the tabard he wore, and his chin was cleanly shaved, yet his black hair was still cropped short for battle with a crown of stag horns interlocked in a circle rested on his brow. The bastard also noticed the King dwarfed the second man, who had a long, solemn face and dark hair to his shoulders. The charcoal used to make the image was smudged around the men’s knees, which weren’t as detailed as the upper bodies of the men, but the rest of the picture was well preserved.  
“Thank you,” the bastard said, smiling a little more genuine than usual. She folded the paper back on its worn horizontal crease, and stuffed it into the top of her furred boots for safe keeping. She finally came to face Bryce, who hadn’t stopped grinning like a fool since she’d arrived. Even standing in front of him, he didn’t move to reveal his gift and was instead doing his best to maintain a stoic face. He was failing miserably.  
“What,” she finally snapped, “what is so damn funny?”  
He handed the present to her so fast, he slammed the hilt into her hand, and the weight of it nearly knocked her off balance. She lifted the heavy weight to reveal a custom sword. Yellow dyed leather with black ribbing of the grip ended in a silver pommel featuring the head of a deer. The crossguard also featured stag heads, with their antlers pressed against their elongated necks so as not to get in the way of use. Even as a glimmered in her hand, she couldn’t believe it. She switched hands and drew the sword from its simple scabbard to reveal the sharp edges of the blade before sliding it back in and hoisting the leather keeper onto her back. The dull ache of her cheeks told her she’d been smiling broadly.  
“Bryce, I…” she couldn’t find the words to thank him. No one had ever given her a gift so glamorous and desirable before.  
“You wouldn’t know it, but it’s a two and a half handed sword. A little lighter than the longswords you’re used to, but it’ll be easy to pair with a shield once you get the hang of it.” She was already thinking of names when she saw that his cat like grin hadn’t dissipated an inch.  
“Do you know what they call two and a half hand swords,” he asked even though he knew she didn’t know the answer. “A Bastard sword.”  
With her back to the rest of the people in the room, she didn’t see them tense. The horror of insult turned to confusion when the usually silent woman dissolved into a fit of laughter. She punched him in the shoulder hard enough to knock the wind from him, but his delight didn’t fade as he joined her chortling even as she dragged him to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> House Amber is a canon in the story, though it is an extinct house which is why the aptly named Ambers appear. More about the vassal houses of Bear Island at a later time, I promise. I have most of it thought through. We’re working our way to King’s Landing chapter by chapter, but I figured Arlyse deserved an in story goodbye to her old life. Bryce and Ollira are members of house Timber, a house so small they have no legal cousins and were only recently recognized by the Mormonts in the five years since their claim. It is the second youngest house on Bear Island. I can’t tell you how disappointed and delighted I was to find that in the initial type up of this chapter, I had written the word “finiest” instead of “finest.” It brought me great pleasure.


	6. Tyrion Lannister I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion gets a good look at the King’s bastard, and the man is not disappointed with what he finds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By Wednesday I had over 1,500 words before I went to bed, and since then I’ve been writing this piece by piece until it is what you can now read. I never thought I’d return to the days when staying awake past 10 PM was a challenge because, before the 25th, I was awake at 10 AM and asleep by 3 AM. Now I’m strictly a 6-AM-to-9-PM kind of person. It has not been all that fun.

Settling down at a nice Inn in the Riverlands, Tyrion couldn’t be more relieved. He feared the cold of the North had seeped so deep within him that he would never be warm again, but the closer they drew to King’s Landing, the more his fears seemed unfounded. They’d finally gone far enough south that he could remove a few layers, and he couldn’t be more grateful.   
The Imp was currently seated atop several cushions so he could look over the lip of the table at his brother Jaime and Bronn, a sellsword they’d met here at the Crossroads Inn who had been good company so far. As Jaime complained about his little brother dragging him to a frozen wasteland to piss off the edge of the world, Tyrion spotted the face he was looking for.   
Robert’s bastard daughter had been leaning against the wall by the door, dressed in thick wool trousers and a green tunic held tightly at her forearms by sheepskin worn with the fur inside. Her boots were also sheepskin worn backward, and the leather skirt on her waist looked too small for her muscular frame as the fabric panels were almost at her hips, the ties straining harshly against her stomach. Even her cloak looked ragged and unornamented.   
She was approached by the young Stark boy Bran with his wolf. The boy gave her a flagon of wine which she sipped lightly and thanked him before sending him back to his family’s table. The polite smile that graced her lips was unpracticed and lopsided.   
“Is that her? Robert’s bastard?”   
Tyrion’s attention returned to the two men at his table.   
“Bit too manly for my tastes,” Bronn was scrutinizing the girl from over the lip of his flagon.   
“Black hair, tall, could probably crush your head between her thighs? Definitely a Baratheon,” Tyrion wasn’t sure what kind of tone Jaime was using. Instead of analyzing further, he decided to join in the conversation.   
“I’d say she reminds me a bit of Renly, was I not sure they were of the same age. Besides, she’s too awkward to be charming. I suppose his Grace looked something like that back when he rebelled against the crown,” Tyrion wagered.   
“I didn’t believe that fat fuck could produce a girl half as attractive.”  
Tyrion saw Bronn wink and looked back to the subject of their conversation. The woman seemed bemused by the flirtation, and looked to Tyrion, he supposed for help. Instead, he merely waved her over, a move she was not expecting, but she made her way around the happy drunks and the visiting party to stand by their table. She stood awkwardly and bowed her head to them, but made no move to join them.   
Tyrion rolled his eyes and gestured with his unoccupied hand. “Please, sit. I promise you none of us bite. Unless, of course, you ask nicely,” he teased.   
“Thank you,” she placed herself by Tyrion’s side but was careful not to crowd him. Across from Jaime and as far away from Bronn as she could get without leaving the table. She kept her legs on the outside of the bench, ready to leave at the first sign of trouble. Smart girl.   
“Arlyse, is it?” She nodded. “Lovely name, I don’t believe there are many girls south of the neck with it, at least none that I’ve ever met. I also hear you’re from a place called Bear Island. What can you tell me about it?”   
He downed the rest of his wine, which was immediately refilled by one of the young children filling cups around the inn. Arlyse set her flagon on the scratched wooden top and muscled her legs under the table before answering. He couldn’t help but notice up close how disheveled her hair was. The black mass didn’t look like it had been washed or combed in some time and was tied around a rampaging bear hairpin that was becoming looser and looser by the minute.   
“What would you like to know,” she asked quietly. Tyrion had completely forgotten what he had asked her before she sat down. She searched the faces at the table waiting for an answer and when no one could respond, Tyrion out of distraction, and the other two out of a lack of interest in the conversation, her mouth twitched upwards for a second.   
“About Bear Island. What would you like to know?”   
“Oh,” Tyrion’s smooth recovery was met with a surprisingly genuine smile from the bedraggled northerner. “Yes, erm… well… I know who your father is and the reason for your traveling to King’s Landing, however, I don’t know much else about, like, for example…”   
His search for specific questions had him scrunching his nose and flapping his lips like a fish out of water, and he decided it was time to take another swallow of wine when she could no longer stifle her giggling with her hand.   
“He wants to ask you who your mother is, and if the northerners of Bear Island are as cold and hardassed as the ones we met on our trip to the Wall,” Tyrion winced at Jaime’s attempt at rescuing him from answering as it was a very brash response, and one the girl might respond badly to. However, Arlyse didn’t seem to mind all that much as a soft smile remained on her lips.   
“My mother is Fryda Karstark of House Mormont, and Bear Island is a place of respectable warriors and fishermen.”   
“Yes, I hear the womenfolk of the House are regarded as warriors alongside the men,” Tyrion finally chimed in.   
“Why in the Seven Hells is that,” Bronn asked, only mildly interested in the answer.   
“Bear Island has more bears than people and is often attacked by Wildlings and Iron Islanders. The Bears keep us on the beaches, but the invaders make us fighters.”   
“A bold statement and one that will not be so lightly received outside of the North,” Jaime warned.   
“Hold on a minute, what’s the Hells’ a Karstark,” Bronn’s relaxed position almost gave him the appearance of dozing off, but his voice suggested he was more awake than he let on.   
“The Karstarks are a cousin of House Stark and sworn to their Warden. They occupy the castle Karhold on the east side of the North,” Tyrion recalled all he could about the books in the library of Casterly Rock that he had found comfort in as a boy.   
“Yes. My mother was betrothed to the lord’s son when she met with my father, long before he was King or even betrothed to Lady Lyanna. When I was born she sent me away to live with my grandfather.”   
“And where is your grandfather? The man who raised you didn’t come to see you be made a true Baratheon,” Tyrion asked. The way her smile slipped away and fingers fidgeted before she sat up straighter in her seat implied bitterness that gave him a bad taste in his mouth.   
“No. He is an old man, I would never ask him to be so far away from his family.” The ache that the Imp felt for the bastard was an old wound throbbing for attention. Best not to dwell too much on the past.   
“And now you find yourself changing social status. From bastard to Lady Paramount of the Stormlands, how do you feel?”   
He thought she wouldn’t answer the way she suddenly chugged her flagon. He didn’t miss the look she gave Jaime, who appeared to be judging her silently across the narrow wooden tabletop. Turning as if getting up to leave, she instead pulled the pin from her hair and let the long mass thump against her back before setting about combing her fingers through the locks.   
“What can you tell me about the Stormlands,” her question was directed at the Imp, and her hair obscured her face from Jaime’s view.   
Tyrion sighed slowly, trying his best to recall any information about the region that he could. Unfortunately, the Stormlands weren’t as interesting to read about as Dorne or the North had been.   
“Well, it’s mostly seaside, especially Storm’s End, which is where you will live. So, I imagine it will be like Bear Island, except it will be full of southerners and rain rather than snow. Jaime is right, of course, about the South being unwelcoming to change or new ideas, but I gather you’re a strong woman and they will have to respect you for that.” Tyrion hoped he sounded more convincing to her than to himself. Her face told him otherwise.   
“What are the Houses of the Stormlands?”   
These memory games were fiddling with his attempt to stay drunk, but he figured that he would indulge her in her questions and save some trouble for whoever was going to help her adjust to Ladyship.   
“Besides Baratheon... there is House Estermont of Greenstone. House Tarth of the island of the same name, and… Houses Selmy and Dondarrion. You know, I don’t think I’m sober enough to recall much else,” he confessed.   
“What you’ve told me is more than helpful. Thank you.” So polite, so unlike the boisterous, selfish, and hot tempered attitude he had seen from the King. She was clearly thinking ahead about the adjustment it’s going to take to rule in Stormlands, she even thought to ask about the people she will be lording over. Perhaps her naturalization and ladyship would be more successful than he had anticipated, though the imp still suspected that beneath the polite, professional exterior laid a sleeping bear much like the one on her hairpin. She had tucked the wooden stick into the top of her boots alongside what he guessed was a sheathed dagger, and by now she had finished plaiting the hip length locks.   
“And the King? What should I expect this man?” Tyrion prayed, for the first time in a long time, he prayed that he did not hear hope in her voice. Jaime must have heard it to, because when he opened his mouth next, Tyrion thought he might lose his perfect teeth.   
“He’s a fat, lazy drunk and a poor excuse for a husband, father, and most of all a King. Robert Baratheon wouldn’t know his cock from a hole in the ground unless you told him there were drink and women in it. That is the only reason you are here. Because your mother couldn’t keep her legs closed and your father thinks with his other head,” he spat.   
The warrior and the knight stared down for what felt like eons to Tyrion. The swell of color spread from her cheeks and ears and flushed down past the green drawstring linen at her throat. Only her knuckles showed white. A bolt of cold lightning shot through his spine and tingled at his fingertips as the sleeping bear revealed itself. This was about to get ugly.   
But rather than launching herself across the table, Arlyse took a deep, numbing sigh and excused herself. Try as she might to appear calm, she still stormed out of the room in a flurry that somehow went unnoticed by the other patrons, save for some of the Stark children. Tyrion glared at his brother, but rather than scold him, he followed the woman out the door. He was mildly perplexed to find the golden direwolf of Bran following him out but allowed it to continue for fear of angering it. He wasn’t sure where to start looking for Arlyse, but the wolf did. Though still young, the creature stood taller than himself, about the size of an adult dog, which only served to make him more nervous. Struggling to keep up on his stunted legs, Tyrion followed it to a lonely willow tree where the woman perched on a thick exposed root. She received the wolf well, scratching its ear as it pressed against her thigh, but she was less enthused by the Imp’s presence. His fingers fidgeted as he searched for the right words to tell her.   
“I know my brother can often be… irresponsibly forward—“ he started.   
“—You need not apologize for him. If he were wrong, you would have said as much,” she cut him off. Her eyes glistened with the moonlight reflecting up from the gentle waters of the river.   
“I just… I know the King will never except me like his trueborn children, that isn’t what I want.” When she didn’t continue, Tyrion took it upon himself to sit on a rock beside her, careful to keep his distance from the wolf. Not that it mattered, as it was summoned back inside by Bran a moment later.   
“And what is it that you want, Arlyse?” Her name rolled off of his tongue like a mother caressing her newborn’s delicate face. Finally, her eyes left the water’s edge to meet Tyrion’s odd, mismatched ones.   
“I want to be a good Lord. I want the Houses of the Stormlands to be better for my rule. And I want them to remember me well.”   
He couldn’t help the gentle turn of his mouth, nor the soft, warm feeling in his chest.   
“And that, my dear, is why you will be the best ruler the Stormlands have yet to have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That Storm’s End-centric tag I put in the description? We are sooo close to it, just a few more chapters. I want to say by chapter 10 at the latest, but it’s not a promise. Also, Jaime was a total twat in season one. I haven’t read much about him in the book yet.]


	7. Howell Dondarrion I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lords of the Stormlands gather to discuss Arlyse Snow's arrival. Some are less welcoming than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! I had a few hours to sit down between classes and flesh this chapter out and posted as soon as this was finished. This chapter is shorter than the last but important in getting to know a little bit about the characters you'll be seeing a lot more of.

Storm’s End was the epitome of a fortress. Built to withstand the raging storms the land is named after, it is said to have been imbued with magic by Durran Godsgrief and the children of the forest. Unlike Winterfell, no houses or buildings survive outside of the Castle walls. Howell dragged the crisp sea air into his lungs and held it in for as long as he could. Blackhaven was nestled into the side of the Dornish mountains, and only received a small portion of the salty wind that other castles around Shipbreaker’s bay got. He had been blown away by its intensity when he had journeyed to Storm’s End as a boy. The wind swirled around him now, slipping under his cloak and coolly caressing his body as he stood atop the great curtain wall that shielded the great castle from the raging storms. The rising sun painted golden orange light across the shimmering dark water. The Lord was pulled from drinking in the scenery when he heard the approaching footsteps stop by his side. He acknowledged the Castellan of Storm’s End with a gentle nod of his head and faced him fully.   
“The other Lords are gathered in the hall, Howell,” Cortnay Penrose said. The sun glistened off his bald head and sparkled red in his spade beard. He always looked mildly annoyed at best with his downturned mouth and brows too close to his eyes.   
“How many are there?”   
“As many as there’s going to be,” Cortnay didn’t bother to finish talking before he was walking back the way he came, and Howell had no choice but to follow. The trek back to the castle was a long and arduous one.   
…  
As they entered the hall, the echoing chattered died down, but didn’t disappear completely. Selwyn Tarth was one of the few seated members present, and standing in a group around him were Ser Jon Connington, Eldon Estermont, and Arstan Selmy. Gulian Swann and Harwood Fell stood together while Cortnay’s father sat talking to Mary Mertyns, and Bryen Caron, Shyra Errol, and Casper Wylde listened in to their conversation. James Trant and Lester Morrigen stood the furthest from the rest of the group whispering between each other.   
Elderly Mary Mertyns’ smile beckoned Howell to her, and Bryen, who was the closest to her, helped her to stand. As she reached her arms, Howell happily returned the offered embrace.   
“Oh Howell, you have grown so handsome in the years I have not seen you. How does your family fair? Well, I hope,” Lady Mertyns concern widened his grin even more.   
“Lady Allyria is well, and our son Ryden is turning into a respectable young man. We hope to find him a bride soon.” The boy was only twelve, but he was gentle and kind, and Allyria had suggested he get to know his betrothed before they marry as he seems incredibly flustered whenever the topic of marriage occurs.   
“How lovely. I seem to recall young Ryden had his mother’s eyes.”   
“Indeed, he does, my Lady. They are beautiful eyes.”   
A hand on his shoulder gained his attention, and Howell turned to face Shyra Errol. Her long, solemn face did not dampen the polite smile on her lips, and her chestnut hair was braided gently and fell to her hips. She noticed the confusion on his face, and answered him before he could speak.   
“Sebastian is ill. Nothing too serious, but the Maester and I begged him not to travel for a few days.” He nodded easily.   
“I wish him a swift recovery. Excuse me, Lady Errol. Lady Mertyns.”   
Mary gathered her silver skirts and sat back down with Bryen’s assistance, Lady Errol took her place beside Casper Wylde, and Howell walked to a spot where he could stand before everyone present to begin.   
“I am sure by now nearly all of you have heard that the King has requested Lord Renly to step down as Lord Paramount and that he will be replaced with one of Robert’s bastards.”   
Apparently, this was news to some as there was a small uproar between groups. A dangerous mix of surprise, outrage, and outright anger formed on the faces of the gathered Lords and Ladies. Jon Connington was the first to direct his outrage at Howell. He stepped forward in all of his quartered red and white garb to make himself heard.  
“The King expects us to follow some outsider? And a bastard at that? Why not name one of his trueborns?” Jon had no love for King Robert, having been close friends with the late Prince Rhaegar, fought against the Rebellion, and thus been reduced from Lord to Knight of Griffin’s Roost. Howell struggled to provide an answer that might satisfy or at least silence him.   
“What about naming another House,” James Trant boldly proclaimed from the sidelines.   
“Prince Joffrey is heir to the Iron Throne, and Prince Tommen is practically still a babe. Naturalizing a bastard would give us a Baratheon to rule and keep the seat within the House.”   
“Then why not naturalize Edric? He may be young, but he has also spent his whole life among us at Storm’s End,” Jon retorted. Howell opened his mouth to reply but quickly shut it again. Jon had a point, after all. Why choose a stranger or a native?   
“It is not our place to question a King’s command, it is only our duty to obey. But we can help him learn our ways. He comes from the North, a respectable place, but he comes not from power. He will want our help because he will need it.” Jon’s face was almost as red as his hair, his ire palpable to everyone in the room, but he merely crossed his arms and threw himself in a pout on the bench beside Selwyn Tarth. Howell’s skin crawled, but he continued with his mission.   
“I propose we gather again when the new Lord Baratheon arrives as a sort of welcome party. Let him see our faces and show him that he can trust us. The faster we gain his trust, the sooner he will become accustomed to his new power, and the better a ruler that he will become.”   
“Those are very optimistic words, Howell. How can we be sure they are true?” Gulian Swann asked skeptically. The man ensures he looks into the eyes of every person in the room, including Cortnay who had sequestered himself in the back with a meal.   
“I cannot guarantee he will be a good ruler, but I will never forgive myself if I do not try.” The words rang in the silence like a bell, and every Lord and Lady looked to the floor in thought. Finally, Lord Tarth stood and spoke for the first time since the meeting began.   
“Lord Dondarrion is right. The King has made his decision, and we must do our duty to serve our new Lord. I would be honored to meet him in person when he arrives.”   
Howell’s firm expression broke as some of the weigh was lifted off of his shoulders. He dipped his head minutely to the elder lord, and Selwyn returned the gesture. Gulian was the next to give his word, and following a pat on Swann’s shoulder, Lord Fell gave his as well. Silver skirts rustled once more as Bryen Caron helped Lady Mertyns stand.   
“No good can come from allowing an inexperienced lordling to fumble his way into power only to let him abuse it. My daughter and I will return to Storm’s End,” she said to Howell, and faced Lord Caron, placing a hand on the arm he was using to hold her steady. “You’ll come to help me around, won’t you dear?”   
“I would not want to be anywhere else, my Lady,” he winked at her playfully, and somehow managed to make her blush gently. He nodded truthfully to Howell as well. Lord Dondarrion had no need to ask Arstan Selmy, for this was his idea, after all. The man had informed him that should he ever try to reveal Lord Selmy’s hand in it, he would deny it vehemently, as he loathed being the center of attention. When it seemed no one else would speak up again, Lady Mertyns turned her grey gaze to the elderly Lord Penrose.   
“Are coming, Lanys? I would very much like to see you again soon.”  
The ancient man smiled a sad smile. “Alas, this trip will be the last I take in a very long while. It may be a year before I am well enough to travel outside of the Parchments again. But would you be so kind as to offer my support? I am sure the lad will need it now more than ever.”   
“I am afraid I must request the same of you,” Lady Errol spoke. “While my lord husband recovers, the cough will no doubt sweep through our castle for weeks until it dies down.” Her apologetic eyes seemed to search Howell for forgiveness, but as far as he was concerned there was none to give.   
“I will gladly give Lord Baratheon your words of support. I wish you both well on your journeys home and your health to prevail,” he dismissed them. As some of the lords accompanied Lady Errol out, and assisted Lord Penrose and Lady Mertyns to the door, Howell looked to Jon for his answer.   
Jon sauntered his way across the stony floor and stood almost chest to chest with Howell, daring him for a challenge.   
“And you, Ser Connington?” Howell’s voice was politer than even he expected it to sound. Slick and dangerous, Jon’s mouth made less of a smile and more of a barring of teeth.   
“You will either see me… or you won’t.” He shrugged, and in a flourish, swept out of the hall like an angry spirit. The sigh that escaped Howell spoke volumes, namely that a ‘maybe’ was likely the best he could have hoped for.   
Seafoam green robes fluttered before him, startling Howell out of his relief and nearly stopping his heart. Lord Estermont was… unnervingly excited. His face glowed with unprecedented glee, he was practically beaming.   
“I and my family will be joining your party. A grandson of my dear Cassana? I have never seen my other great niece and nephews aside from Edric, this is a very welcome change. Every child of the King is a child of my sister.”   
The joy vibrating from the older man was significantly less unnerving.   
“Then I will see you in a month’s time,” Howell clapped his shoulder and spoke out to the rest of the group. “For now, return to your homes and fair well.”   
As Estermont and others exited from the hall, Howell approached Lords Trant and Morrigen, who had been whispering to each other the entire meeting. Trant had been quiet since supporting Jon’s outrage, but Morrigen had been completely absorbed in staying out of the exchange.   
“And you, my lords? May I look forward to seeing you back here?” He looked between them, and while Lester Morrigen looked everywhere but at Howell, James’ stare cut through Howell’s core, and the smile he offered was cryptic at best. In the end, it was James who answered him.   
“No, Lord Dondarrion. We have other business to attend to, but you can bet your favorite horse that we will see him afterward.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allyria Dayne was originally betrothed to Beric Dondarrion, but his disappearance forfeited his claim on Blackhaven, and his cousin Howell married her instead and became the next Lord. Mary Mertyns is my Professor McGonagall, though I don't believe I'll be doing her justice.


	8. Arlyse Snow III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bastard dies, a noble is born. Allies, as well as enemies, are gained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, school’s hitting me hard. Regardless, I'm back and with a real doozy. I have a bunch of chapters set up, but finding the time and motivation to actually type things out has been impossible lately. I sat down about six times to write this when I usually crank them out in one or two sessions.

King’s Landing had been impressive and intimidating from beyond its walls, the tall castle towering upon the hills named after their Targaryen Conquerors Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya. The contrast was vast now amidst the brick and poor shelters that lined the streets of the slums. Fleas Bottom, as Tyrion had called it, gave Arlyse a very different impression. Beggars and angry, starving villagers glared menacingly at the royal party as they passed by on their way to meet the King in the Red Keep. Some of the onlookers, like the small children and young women, gazed in awe at the spectacle, mostly at Ser Jaime, Tyrion, and Lord Brandon Stark. She puffed her chest a bit when she spotted some eyes on her, as her back could not have slouched atop the palfrey. Apple seemed not to be enjoying the attention, especially annoyed by the small children who crowded her feet until she stamped threateningly at them. The whiny she released as they scattered screaming could have been mistaken for strange laughter.   
Meanwhile, the bastard couldn’t stop the proud smirk that emerged at the shimmering eyes of fascinated children who realized that beneath the simple black leather clothing was a woman. She put on the best clothes she had, unornate doublet, jerkin, trouser, and unfurred boots. She might have been mistaken for a member of the Night’s Watch. The sweltering heat made her nauseous and dizzy, but she decided it was worth all of the efforts she had put into it making it when she was only four and ten. Sure, it was clumsily stitched and if one scrutinized closely, they could see the patches of dark brown fabric that had gone unaffected by her repeated efforts, but she had never made anything so fine before or since. Even though her grandfather had been disappointed, especially when she had announced that she would never try again, she was still immensely proud. The party left their mounts with the dozens of stable hands at the ready by the massive wooden doors of the Hall.   
At last they reached the cooler shade provided by the King’s Hall, and Arlyse got her first look at her Lord father. He was every bit as despicable in appearance as Ser Jaime had said. The proud, handsome warrior from the parchment was gone and replaced by a man who appeared to have swallowed a horse whole and was still digesting it. The light sheen on his brow and the unruly black fur on his face reminded her of an ugly Wildling woman she had fought with on Bear Island. Relief and disappointment battled within her chest as she gazed around at the other people gathered in the hall. She only half listened to the announcements and light banter of greetings exchanged by the Lords and their King. Knights in plain steel armor with white cloaks lined every exit and entrance, and a few formed a broken line meant to protect the King. Most eyes were on her, she discovered, and she held as many gazes as she could with an air of dignity and superiority. Nearly all seemed unwavered by her attempts to impress, however.   
At last, the conversation turned to her, and Arlyse opened her slick palms at her sides. Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and her father finally placed his hard gaze upon her.   
“Come forward,” he said.   
Arlyse’s boots echoed from the walls in the silence, and she placed herself before the steps of the Iron Throne. Her eyes did not wander now, even as he gestured, and she felt a presence beside her stand close enough to brush shoulders.   
“State your names,” he bellowed. The boy that had joined her rose his head further back.   
“I am Jon Snow of house Stark. Son of Eddard Stark, Hand of the King.” She had his attention now. He merely flashed her a smile, and they both returned their eyes to the Iron Throne.   
“I am Arlyse Snow of the houses Mormont and Baratheon. I am your bastard.” A whisper like ‘one of your bastards’ washed through her ears, but no one seemed to notice. She knelt with bowed head, not having been asked, but as to mask her wide eyes and bloodless face for a moment. She was unsure if Jon had joined her, but a new sound distracted her. Heavy thumping made its way towards them, and the decorated boots edged her vision beyond the black tendrils spilling from her plait.   
The call to rise brought her face to face with the giant mass of a man, and she could smell the wine on his breath he was so close. The smile that pushed his fat cheeks almost completely over his eyes surprised her. Rumbling in his chest like thunder proceeded two rough, meaty slaps on her shoulders as he searched her features.   
“A Baratheon if I ever saw one. My brother was right, you are my blood,” he laughed. “Here,” he slipped a sealed scroll to her that she clutched to her chest, and backed away two steps.   
“From this day forward, you are Arlyse Baratheon, Lady Paramount of Storm’s End and the Stormlands.”   
Her lips parted but no sounds formed. Blue eyes flitted to the King’s belt, then to the ceiling before returning to his face. “I thank you for this honor, your Grace.” He scoffed at her words.   
“You will be cursing me sooner than you think, my dear.” His eyes drifted to someone behind her, and back to her face. He sidestepped to Jon and handed him the second parchment.   
“From this day, forward, you are Jon Stark.” Jon bowed his head and thanked the King as the man backed up before the stairs leading to the throne.   
“I require entertainment. There is a banquet tonight. You will attend, make merry, and tomorrow, swear your fealty before joining your subjects at Storm’s End.” A command, not an invitation. “For now,” his arms spread wide, “enjoy King’s Landing.” He dismissed the gathering and swept out of the Hall like a nimble stag. As the doors shut behind his family and some of the guards, Arlyse finally breathed in. At least he hadn’t left her to flounder too much.   
“Arlyse,” Jon said before slamming his body onto hers.   
“Jon, old boy! You’re a lot bigger than I remember,” She returned the hug with the strength to match, and they battled for dominance until Jon relinquished his hold. Their giggling bounced merrily from the walls, and her nerves warmed to a normal temperature. He almost looked like he would say ‘I could say the same of you,’ but thought better of himself. Ever the gentlemen, Jon was. She still looked down to him, but not as much as she had when they were younger.   
“It is a pleasure to see you again, my Lady,” Jon bowed his head, and she felt a strange ripple in her spine. Arlyse nearly spat ‘don’t’ at him, but took a mental breath before responding.   
“And you, my Lord.” His eyes flashed with the same surprise and discomfort she had felt.   
The rest of the Stark family stalked forward and met beside the legitimate bastards. Lord Brandon hugged his brother like a vice, and Arlyse heard the breath rip from the Hand’s chest in a happy huff. The greetings continued with Jon lifted his cousins Bran and Lyanna from the floor, and Robb shaking his uncle's hand before kneeling to hug Eddard’s daughter. She made a move to leave, but was ambushed by Jon and Robb, their arms full of squirming and giggling children, and dragged into a group hug. Even Sansa had acquiesced to the giant mob, though more against her will judging by her face and the arm around her back. Most were relieved for the squeezing to be over.   
“I remember you, my lady,” Robb said, dipping his head. “You taught Jon, Sansa, and I to joust on each other’s shoulders in the river on my ninth name day.”   
Arlyse’s eyes bulged for a second, surprised he had remembered her at all. The river was the only time they had ever spent together. At least with Jon, they had spent the entire day playing swords and talking about being bastards.  
“Well, I’m glad I made such an impression on you, Lord Robb,” Her smile was more than polite.   
“Just Robb, love,” he said, winking. She gave a shallow bow, and when the conversations turned from her, she skirted around the children to meet Lord Eddard Stark. Slick palms suggested a nervousness to meeting the Quiet Wolf in person. Heat at her ears when she realized she had a picture of in tucked into the top of her boot. Luckily, she arrived just as the brother’s finished talking.   
“Ah, Lady Arlyse. It is good to see you again.” Brandon greeted.   
“And you, my lord. Might I steal Lord Eddard from you? I feel I will quickly lose myself in such an unfamiliar place.”   
Brandon bowed off to command the children to their rooms while the rest of the company cleared the Halls.   
“Ned will do, Lady Baratheon,” the wolf said.   
“Arlyse will do, Ned,” she imitated. The gentle lift of his lips felt like cool water down her overheated spine. “Is there a quiet place with a decent amount of shade at the castle?”   
That made him chuckle, and he offered his arm to her, as well as instructions to behave for their uncle to his children, before heading to the royal gardens.   
…  
Small talk seemed to be neither the wolf nor the bear’s strength, and both were content to stroll in light silence through the corridors. The Hand only had one guard now, and the knight trailed behind them like a shadow, making her a little nervous. Arlyse was grateful every time a breeze rolled by and the walls protected her delicate skin from the harsh sun. However grateful for the silence, she could not help the nagging question in her mind.   
“Lord… Ned. I understand you and the King were close, but you were not his first choice for his Hand. Whatever happened to the first?”   
“Jon Arryn stepped down. He felt he was needed more in the Vale than here in King’s Landing, and I was told that both he and King Robert agreed I would be the best to replace him.”   
She chewed on her words a bit and hoped she wasn’t prying.   
“Why was Lord Arryn needed in the Vale?” If the wolf was annoyed or perturbed, he made no show of it.   
“The Lord’s son is very sickly, and Lady Lysa’s actions have concerned the Elder council that neither are fit to properly rule.”   
She felt lighter despite having such a trivial thing answered for her. The colors of the garden distracted her for a moment, as white petals danced with blues and pinks and oranges and yellows. They sat together in a covered pavilion that looked over the lapping waves of the sea. She knows the bay is named Blackwater thanks to Tyrion’s detailed and boastful stories of his time in King’s Landing, some so lewd he would apologize when he’d remembered she was a woman. The guard moved to stand watch, but Arlyse scooted over and patted the seat beside her politely. He seemed relieved but did not to accept her request without Ned’s approval first.   
Knowing her usual sitting position is far from ladylike, she settled for just leaning on her elbows instead. A handmaiden dressed in blood orange myrish lace filled three flagons with sweet water and bowed before swaggering off.   
“May I ask you something, Arlyse,” Ned inquired. “What do you plan to do when you reach Storm’s End?”   
“I’m going to visit every castle in the land that I can and meet with the Lords and Ladies personally. Better to gage the situation that way and figure out exactly what I’m up against.”   
Ned nodded as if in approval. “Are you afraid the Lords and Ladies might view your visit as a hostile show of power?”   
She hadn’t really thought of how they might see it. Nothing is ever simple, Arlyse thought and sighed through her nose in irritation.   
“They’ll just have to trust that I am here to help.”   
Ned grinned softly and stared at the table, but did not offer advice or provide comment right away. Meanwhile, Arlyse sipped her sweet water and wished it were honeyed ale. The guard offered no words either, only downed the drink and remained vigilant.   
“I know this is going to be a difficult adjustment, for you and the people of the Stormlands, but I am confident that you will rise to the challenge.” There was no string of words more encouraging, and she thanked him for it.   
“Tell me about Lord Renly.” She said. Ned seemed surprised, even raising his eyebrows for a moment before answering.   
“I cannot say I know him well, but I have heard he is very charming and beloved by his—your people.” Great, competition. And still breathing competition. This was going to be far more difficult than she had anticipated. The sweltering heat was only fueling her annoyance and discomfort.   
“Lord Stannis is approaching, my Lord.” The guard said.   
Arlyse looked up to find a stoic man who appeared like a gray cloud among the bright flowers of the garden. Salt and pepper hair fronted familiar blue eyes, and without knowing who he was, she knew this man was a Baratheon. Each member of the current group stood to greet him, and he bowed in acknowledgment. He gestured to Arlyse, and she excused herself before joining him at another empty pavilion. Instead of sitting, they leaned against the rail between the garden and the bay.   
“I will be joining you on your way to Storm’s End and stay for a few days to make sure you are secure in your new position.” He said.   
“Going to show me the ropes, and make sure no one strangles me in my sleep?”   
“Precisely.” Stern and candid. She knew very little about house Baratheon, and even less about Stannis. She did know that he one of the King’s brothers, Lord of Dragonstone, and a member of the Small Council thanks to Tyrion.   
Stannis turned to leave, but Arlyse called his attention before he could go too far.   
“Why me? I have heard that the King has other bastards, why choose me? How did you even know I was his if we’ve never met?”   
“I have a personal list of all of Robert’s bastards, at least the ones that matter,” Stannis said. “You are the eldest and share noble blood from both parents, therefore you are the rightful heir.”   
He left the words to ring in her ears as she leaned more heavily on the rail, wishing she could vault across it into the sea. The heat had reached the pinnacle of unbearableness, and she walked brusquely out of the garden. The sheen of sweat did not provide any relief against the sun’s wrath, and rhythm of her steps wavered dangerously. Her skin was wet through and through, she felt her pulse in her temples, her neck, every inch of her body, and her vision clouded while her lungs gasped for air. She didn’t even realize she had been stripping until the handmaiden stopped her and showed her to her room.   
The blonde curls and reddish lace dress reminded Arlyse of Linly Ambers, and she wished her friend was here with her. More hands gripped her arms and her torso, peeling away the leather cloth from her body until she stood in her loin clothes. But the cool air on her skin only lasted a minute, her chest still constricting and her vision growing dark, only to rescind some when coolness washed over her from her toes up her legs to her shoulders. Hands on her cheeks kept her lolling head from slipping under the water, and more hands began scrubbing at her arms with scented oils and soap. Voices that were muffled and distant became clearer, and beneath the light banter and gossip a stream of concern could be heard. Arlyse let the women work, soothing her aching muscles and letting her heart and breathing settle.   
…  
“Are you alright, my lady?” Arlyse’s eyes opened sluggishly as the sound of the handmaiden from the garden. Looking around the room was deserted aside from them and a Septa washing her clothes in her cloudy green water.   
“Very much. Thank you, love.” The girl blushed. “Would you mind finding me some fresh clothes?”   
She dipped her head and exited quietly. Fixing her gaze on the Septa, she washed her scrub the leather thoroughly and noticed the rest of her clothes hanging to dry in the window. The Septa did not speak, because of a vow or simply out of courtesy she wasn’t sure, but she climbed out of the bath to find her sword.   
The blonde appeared shocked to see Arlyse walk naked around the room, but quickly averted her eyes and continued to search the woman’s trunk for suitable clothes. After a short search, she found the sword hidden behind the vanity glass. Inspecting the scabbard for damage, she brushed her fingers over the oval amber stone held between the antlers of the stag head pommel. Looking at her reflection, her black hair curled in rings around her breasts and shoulder blades, even brushing down to her navel. It was the softest and tamest it had ever been, and she couldn’t help but comb her fingers through the wet strands. She stopped playing with it long enough to plait it over her shoulder and toss it back.   
“I think I found something for you, my lady,” the words rolled off of her tongue so naturally, but they still grated in the bear’s ears.   
“Thank you,” Arlyse took the fabrics from her hands and examined them. By the time she’ had pulled the tunic over her head, the maiden was gone. The trousers and the boots slipped on with ease once she’d toweled the droplets from her long legs, but she debated the need for the battle skirt. She recalled the story her grandfather had told her of her mother, how Fryda had never liked the pale leather and had even stripped the skirt of its iron plates despite the protection it offered. She laced the corset as best she could, having been made for a narrower waist and set out to explore the castle.   
…  
The sun had passed the highest part of its journey hours before, and the air cooled to a level more fitting to Arlyse’s preference. She became more confident traversing the halls as she committed the layout to memory. Swinging around a corner, Arlyse found herself in a bit of trouble.   
A wealth of kingsguard knights surrounded a woman who could be no one other than the Queen. Cersei Baratheon of house Lannister looked as much a lion as her brothers, with fair skin and golden curls to match. The lioness stalked towards her in red and gold robes and smiled, careful not to bare her fangs.   
“Well, well, well, such a coincidence to meet you here. Arlyse, was it not?”   
The bear was careful to curb her suspicions and soothe the raised hairs on her neck and arms. A wall dropped and her face became as smooth and stoic as the Baratheon brothers. She bowed deeply, her rear nearly in line with her head as she did so.   
“Your grace, it is an honor to meet you.” The sickly smile had not changed an inch, looking more like a sneer now.   
“I thought it more a custom to kneel in the presence of royalty.” She meant to make a fool out of the bastard.   
“My apologies, my Queen. My knees are weakened from walking these halls, I am afraid I might not stand again if I knelt.”   
Cersei did not look pleased by the excuse, though Arlyse got the feeling that nothing the bastard could do short of slitting her own throat would provide an ounce of satisfaction to her.   
“A shame. I was hoping we could help each other out, but it appears not to be so.” Cersei stepped closer and stood almost nose to nose with Arlyse, who fought to keep her hands at her sides as striking royalty was a death sentence. An alliance with the King’s bastard was never on the cards.   
“You will do well to remember two things: lions eat stags, and a Lannister always pay his debts.”   
A gentle hand nearly had Arlyse ripping the sword from her scabbard, but realizing every enemy stood in front of her, she merely turned to look. A handsome face with neatly trimmed hair and beard and startling blue eyes rescued her.   
“My dear niece, I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Good sister, might I steal my replacement from you? I believe Ser Jaime has been asking after you for some time.” He pretended not to feel the hostility like static in the atmosphere.   
Without another word, the Queen exited the courtyard in a flourish with the four guards close behind. Her savior took her arm and guided her in the opposite direction. She adjusted their hold into a more escort like position and sighed with relief.   
“You must be Lord Renly I take it,” she said. His chuckle lightened the mood a fraction.   
“That I am. Don’t you mind Cersei too much, half of those guards were present for your protection, not hers. I have asked Sers Oakheart and Moore to keep their eyes on her.” She found they had returned to the royal garden, even the same pavilion where she had sat with Lord Eddard. This time sat Tyrion, Bronn, and a young man in red dyed leather sat drinking wine.   
Lord Renly greeted Tyrion, made light banter, and whirled the woman slowly to face him, hands on each shoulder to hold her attention.   
“I trust you will be safe and comfortable here. I will see you tonight at dinner.” The charming young Baratheon trounced away into the greenery before she could thank him. She returned her attention to the familiar company.   
“May I join you?”   
“Of course, of course,” Tyrion said. “Come, sit, drink. You remember Bronn I’m sure, but I don’t believe you’ve met young Podrick, my squire.”   
She sat between the lord and the sellsword to get a good look at the squire. Laying back in her seat, she resisted the urge to toss her boots onto the short table as Bronn had, and smiled impishly at Podrick. He smiled back, but the innocence was tainted as she recognized some of her impishness reflected back at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have no fear, I shan’t give up on this. I’ve got up to 8 chapters waiting to be typed up and typed they shall be. Next chapter is all about the Starks, followed by the first split POV chapter.


	9. Eddard Stark III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Arya finally meet their gifts, and a wolf becomes smitten with a lion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus, it’s been too long. For some reason, this chapter really stumped me, and I’m still not happy with it, but I like the cute stuff so it’s going up!

Ned watched Lord Stannis Baratheon disappear with Robert’s bastard. The woman walked with her chin level and her back straight and reminded him of the old She-Bear. Her ebony braid swung side to side and glistened with sweat in the strong sunlight.   
“So?” Ned’s guard said. The Hand raised an eyebrow in question and sipped the rest of his sweet water. “What do you think of her, honestly?”   
The man had not known his Lord long, but he was loyal and alert for someone so young. Desmond Karhold was fancied by many common women, Ned had even seen some noble women give him a second look, but as a commoner guard himself, nothing went beyond a look. Thinking back to the question, Ned struggled to put into words his first impression of the woman.   
“I think she is young, and I fear she has more makings for a warrior than a Lady, but I believe she can use this to her advantage. I pray she can find common ground with her vassals.”   
Desmond nodded slowly and adjusted his hold on the flagon.   
“She’s very… tall,” he said.   
Ned chuckled a bit, unsure where he was going with the thought. “There are few women I meet eye to eye, yes. No doubt she is a Baratheon.”   
“Not the prettiest, I suppose… but she might make a decent wife, given some time.”   
Ned narrowed his eyes at the guard. Desmond was coming dangerously close to insubordination now.   
“I will not speak of this. Come,” Ned said. “I wish to see what Brandon has brought my children.”   
The young guardsman stood up with a look of contrition on his face as he followed his lord through the garden and they made their way to the middle Bailey. They found the rest of the Stark family gathering near the Kennels. Ned could not believe his eyes when his daughter came bounding towards him with a wolf pup cradled in her arms. The silver backed beast could not have been more than two months old, yet it was twice the size of a normal pup that age.   
“Father! Father, look! Uncle Brandon brought direwolves from the Wall. There were enough for Bran and Robb and Sansa and even me and Jon!”   
Arya was out of breath by the time she reached her father, and she shoved the small pup into his arms, pointing at its ears, wet nose, and more. He had to call her name several times to get through her excitement.   
As she stared at him with wide eyes and a wider smile, he couldn’t help but accept the creature resting in his arms. Jon arrived just in time with his white pup to be lectured.   
“You will train them, feed them, and when they die you will bury them. Understood?” Eyes ablaze with responsibility, the children of Ned Stark put on their best serious face, pressing their lips together hard to suppress their smiles. The man’s chest tightened an inkling.   
“Have you chosen names for them, yet,” Ned asked.   
The two shared a glance. Jon hitched his head to allow Arya to go first.   
“Nymeria.” She puffed her chest and took the pup back. “Like the warrior princess.”   
“It’s a lovely name, Arya.”   
“Mine is called Ghost,” Jon said. Glowing snow surrounds two blood red petals that sent a shiver through Ned’s back. A ghost indeed. The pup whimpered and shuffled in Jon’s arms, only to be soothed back into contentment by Arya’s hand.   
“I’m hungry,” the girl complained.   
…   
The Starks regrouped in the Hand of the Tower as the sun reached its peak. Brandon and Ned sat across the long end of the table opposite one another, Robb and Sansa to the Hand’s right, Jon, young Bran, and Arya to his left. Little Lyanne had propped herself in her uncle’s lap and was gesturing wildly while telling him silly stories. Catelyn had retired to their suite to put Rickon down for a nap.   
Lady Stark had been Ned’s savior when Celiria had died in childbed. He feared he would be consumed by the returned smell of blood and roses, lost deep in memories and drowning in sorrow until his good sister Catelyn appeared. The Tully woman had forced the man to eat, and on more than one occasion to bathe. When the nightmares became too vivid, she took care of his boy and his babe, like she had her own. Mourning nearly consumed him until Catelyn slipped the wriggling pink girl into his limp arms. Holding Arya had given him the strength he needed to rise above his grieving, and it would not have been possible without his good sister to place her there.   
Ned brushed little Lyanne’s dark hair behind her large ears and basked in her bright eyes. So much like his own, so much like his daughter’s and Lyanne’s namesake. Several pairs of eyes watched him from the floor, the pups seeming to have gathered around his feet to hear Lyanne speak. Her story had taken so many turns, he wasn’t sure what she was talking about anymore.   
“And then Bran jumped off the haystack and slammed right into Robb’s back!” She clapped her hands and laughed so loudly Ned could do nothing but join in. Most of the table was chuckling or smiling gently.   
“That’s lovely, Lyanne.” Ned patted the girl’s head and excused himself. “I have another meeting with the Small Council before dinner tonight. It was a pleasure to see you all today.” Hugs and pleasantries were exchanged, and Ned left his family reluctantly, and by the time he reached the door of the hall, he could already hear the bickering outside the meeting hall.   
…  
The meeting was its usual brand of awful. Bland, boring, with a bitter aftertaste that put everyone in a sour mood. Robert motioned for Ned to follow him, and they walked the halls for a while.   
“That damned Littlefinger. Runs a brothel and thinks he is smarter than everyone in the room. Don’t get me started on the eunuch or that damned woman.” A young Robert would be red in the face with anger, but this was the face of a tired man. Dark bags made home beneath his eyes and slumped shoulders made him, even more, a shadow of his former self than his pot belly.   
“They have a right to offer their opinions. That is the purpose of the Small Council, after all.”   
“Damn it, Ned, advising the king is one thing, but thinking you know better is a different beast. I could execute that woman for her treacherous words.”   
Ned did not reply. Instead, he listened to the quick pattering of tiny slippers that had been trailing them since they had left the hall. A smile crept onto his lips, but he couldn’t figure out which Stark child was following him. Rickon would never be allowed beyond his mother’s sight, and Bran would take the high road. There were plenty of ledges to climb. Arya had become undetectable since she had started training with Syrio, so that left only Lyanne. A glance behind him revealed nothing but a black tail disappearing behind a pillar. “My brother told me you had arranged a marriage with his daughter.”   
“Yes. I would prefer Prince Joffrey wed your daughter, but many have assured me that Sansa would make a better match,” Robert said.   
A chill ran up Ned’s spine thinking of his wild little Arya being married to that brat. The boy was only twelve, but there lay the seeds of a darkness in his soul that smelled like trouble for the future of Westeros. The man could not help but suspect the queen mother was the blame.   
Stepping into a common area, Robert stopped Ned with a hand on his chest and pointed his chin to their right. Ned’s eyes brushed over to the garden. Tully red locks and shimmering grey swathes of silk decorated with wolves and hummingbirds revealed young Sansa and her company. Septa Mordane and Sansa’s friend Jeyne Poole stood by her side as she looked over the bright summer flowers in the courtyard garden. Stalking towards the girls, a golden lion dressed in red approached, a smirk plastered on his face. The men were too far to make out the conversation, but seeing Sansa’s company bow and swiftly exit, Ned feared the worst.   
Even from a distance, Sansa’s eyes glowed with light, while the Prince smiled with the falsehood of his lioness mother. Ned felt his heart pull him forward, but Robert’s hand felt heavy. His feet pushed past the weight and he drifted over to the pair. Sansa saw him first and didn’t look too happy with him but took his offered arm no less.   
“Your Highness,” Ned bowed his head.   
“Prince Joffrey was telling me about the hunting trip Ser Jaime took him on a few months ago,” Sansa told him. “Uncle Ned, he killed quite a few impressive beasts.”   
“That’s… very nice.”   
Robert put his arm around Joffrey’s shoulders, much to the boy’s surprise. The King was already beaming as he looked between the Prince and the lady.   
“Look at this, Ned. It is only a matter of time before our houses are finally joined like they should have been years ago.”   
Sansa smiled broadly, Joffrey awkwardly, and Robert’s expression turned somber, but not half as somber as Ned’s mood.   
…  
Ned stood outside in the setting sun overlooking a makeshift training field in the Tower of the Hand’s courtyard. There, Robb and Jon swung wooden swords at each other while Brandon and Caitlyn ate summer fruits. Frustrated whispers followed the feeling of little paws scratching at his boots. He lifted the little black direwolf and scratched his ears until Lyanne unveiled herself.   
“Traitor,” she hissed at the pup, “if you were a real wolf, you’d starve in the wild.”   
Ned chuckled lightly at the girl’s ire, and this time as Sansa pulled at his arm to be freed, he relinquished his hold. Lyanne took the pup half her size and scurried off sensing a storm. Despite her anger, Sansa knew she had not been dismissed.   
“Sansa, I understand you are excited about marrying the Prince, but—”  
“Yes, and I love him! He is a golden lion, we are going to marry, and I’ll give him beautiful sons with blonde hair.”   
Ned forgot exactly what he was going to say when Arya appeared from the railing. “The lion is not his sigil, idiot. He’s a stag like his father.”   
“He is not—he’s nothing like that old drunk King.”   
Ned narrowed his eyes at the strange revelation but dismissed it along with the girls. He sat with his brother and good sister to watch their sons battle for fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Rewatching season 1 of Game of Thrones, Jack Gleeson was adorable. What an adorable little shit. Rickon was deemed too young for a wolf, so he and Lyanne share Shaggydog. Celiria’s death was nine years ago and still pains Ned very much. Thoughts of a re-edit where Bran is also Ned’s son.]


	10. King's Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bastard lets go of the past and embraces her future. The feast and the oath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why King’s Landing you may be asking, and the answer is because multiple points of view. A trick I shall remember in the future. Yay, I get to write about some of my favorite minor characters! Also, I realized a changed Pepper’s name to Apple in another chapter? Whoops.

The spring green of Myrcella’s gown mirrored the decorated tunic of her uncle Renly. He escorts her through the guesthouse and steps in time with her despite his longer stride. “Thank you, uncle, do you think Sansa and Arlyse will like my gifts?”   
“I think they will love it, dear niece.” Myrcella smiled and clutched the gift harder in her palm. Profanity ripped through the air behind a door ahead, and Myrcella approached quickly worried someone was being hurt. She pushed into the room to reveal her father’s bastard being held down by handmaidens.   
Two servants held her arms, the strongest held her by her ankles while the oldest brushed the knots from her black hair. It seemed the water and soap could only help so much. The dresses on the bed appeared to belong to the struggling woman, one was a pale green too small to fit the towering woman, and the other was white and grey at the ends, both clearly did not belong to her.   
“What is the meaning of this,” Renly demanded.   
The half-naked woman stilled as she noticed the newcomers. The handmaidens seemed abashed, dropping Arlyse back into the chair and bowing respectfully. Only the elder maid did not release her black tangles. “The Lady Baratheon has never run a brush through her hair, it seems.”   
“May I?” Myrcella took the brush from the old maid and separated Arlyse’s hair before brushing it herself, far more gently than they had. The woman steeled herself and allowed her princess to help her. Renly dismissed most of the servants with a wave, stopping the bowlegged maid who looked like Linly and inviting her to search for a more suitable gown. “Mother brushes my hair starting from the ends first because my curls are so thick.”   
Arlyse’s jaw clenched at the mention of the Queen, but she did not spit like she wanted to. “She sounds like a good mother.”   
“Where is your mother?”   
The scratch of the brush was already soothing the sting from earlier, and she pulled the robe closer around her chest when she saw Renly put his back more pointedly towards her.   
“My mother is in the north.” The bear hoped in vain the answer would suffice.   
“Why didn’t she come with you? My mother would never let me go anywhere without her when we visited Winterfell.”   
“I have not seen Lady Fryda since I was a babe. She is married and lives on the on the other side of the north, I’m afraid, and a bastard— royal or not— dishonors her husband.” Mycrella was quiet after that. The bowlegged handmaiden found an appropriate gown by the time her hair was finally untangled. The dress was a deep yellow linen, but the sleeves were hanging on by a few loose stitches. Arlyse had next to no trouble ripping the thread apart and slipping the gown over her head. While the handmaiden laced the sides over her white chemise and Myrcella braided the hair at her crown, Renly found a black belt to match. The linen was thankfully thin and gave her plenty of room to breathe in the heat of the summer night and she smiled bashfully as each person gave her their praise. “Enough, the feast will begin soon, we should not be late.”   
The hall filled with mirth and the smell of venison, cheese, and steamed vegetables. Arlyse mustered enough control so as not to gorge herself on the decadent display, and thankfully gained no second looks when she had a second plate stacked with nothing but vegetables and cheese. She tossed the twin braids at her nape behind her to dig in without obstruction. The braids at her crown and nape were courtesy of the young princess, and the rest of her hair was twisted and pinned with her grandfather’s gift. The small council and their guests sat near enough to the royal family that one need only raise a voice to carry out conversation. Arlyse sat with the Starks having been dragged that section of the table by Bran and Robb. Arya was asking her all sorts of questions about Bear Island and her life so far as a bastard to the adults’ chagrin, but her questions were met with cool and honest answers. An hour into the night, the woman responded to a small hand on the shoulder.   
“My lady,” the woman bowed her decorated head at the princess.   
“May I borrow you a moment? I need lady Sansa, as well.”   
“Of course, my Lady.” Sansa gathered her silvery blue skirts and followed the younger girl enthusiastically. Princess Myrcella brought the girls to the royal family’s table where Tyrion sat holding two objects wrapped in gold silk and black ribbon. He drank from his horn while the girls unwrapped their gifts under the watchful eyes of and the Queen. Sansa squealed her thanks as she admired the metal lion head necklace in her hands and Prince Joffrey rose to help her with the clasp. During the distraction, Arlyse unlaced the silk and unveiled a carved stone. At first, she thought the markings were braided vines but soon realized they were antlers.   
“It’s for your sword. A whetstone—uncle Jaime said your sword looked dull.” Arlyse did not need to look at the Kingslayer to know he was smirking as he had not meant it as an observation and certainly not as a compliment. But Myrcella had good intentions, she did not need to know that. Before she could thank the girl, Myrcella threw her arms around Arlyse’s waist unexpectedly. The bastard wrapped her free arm around the princess who’s grip only tightened with the contact. “I’m so excited to know you. I know you’re only a half-sister, but a half of a sister is better than no sister at all!”   
Arlyse knew the rest of her family did not share that sentiment but right now she could not bring herself to care.   
“Thank you for the present, Myrcella. And the blessing. I pray I make you proud in the Stormlands, little sister.” The girl’s smile split her face and her golden curls seemed brighter for it. But the hall had quieted to mere whispers and too many faces had turned their way. It did not matter that some faces were hostile and others friendly, the bastard’s palms began to sweat and she quickly excused herself and skirted out of the hall gratefully unopposed.   
The bear found herself in the stables with Pepper after swinging by her quarters for her sword. The red mare eagerly accepted the apple and stamped a bit before settling and allowing Arlyse to brush her mane. A shadow passed over her head and she whipped around, sword in hand. It was only the squire Podrick, his hands raised in submission and a nervous curve on his lips.   
“You shouldn’t sneak up on people,” she huffed and sheathed the sword.   
“No sneaking, my lady, only obeying my master’s wishes.” Podrick returned Tyrion’s beige palfrey to its stable beside Pepper. He came back and pet Pepper’s rump. “Such a beauty.”   
“The horse,” Arlyse goaded.   
“Her, too.” The bear chuckled softly and tossed the brush at him, and he caught it with ease.   
“May I see it?” The woman took the scabbard from her hip and handed it off to him, scrutinizing him as he scrutinized the sword. He seemed to approve and caressed the polished lemon quartz encased safely in silver antlers. “Have you given any thought to its name, yet? I believe you’ve had it for near a month now.”   
“It’s a sword. A bastard sword.”   
Podrick smiled not unkindly. “Every good sword has a name.”   
“Some names are earned, not given. But suppose for now, just between us, the Bastard’s sword will find me a companionable bedfellow.”   
“I believe the Bastard’s sword already has.”   
Instead of receiving a playful swat, Podrick received pink lips dancing with his own. The man was pleasantly surprised and disappointed when they separated. Arlyse’s dazed eyes met his, and as she took the Bastard she also pressed something wooden into his hand. Her hair tumbled in swathes around her shoulders and she swept into the shadows without another word. Podrick opened his fist and observed the black bear with emeralds for eyes.   
…  
Ned stood beside his old friend as Robert’s bastard knelt at the foot of the throne. Plaits so ebony they made the dyed leather of her armor look a sickly brown fell over her shoulder and touched the steel studs of the armor plating. The two-handed sword was drawn from its sheath and presented to the king.   
. The light struck the clear stone in the head and cast an ethereal glow over her face.   
“I, Arlyse Baratheon, Lady Paramount of the Stormlands, hereby swear my loyalties and banners to King Robert of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, Protector of the Realm and Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. May your reign be long and fruitful.”   
The King’s Hand was sure Lord Renly or someone else had helped her practice her words the night before, but the dirt on her knees suggested she might have been out all night.   
“Rise, Lady Arlyse, and go to Storm’s End. The end of your journey is at hand,” Robert said. Ned met eyes with the young doe, and thought the opposite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Arlyse needs some love, familial and otherwise (nudge, nudge, wink, wink). I’m, like, 60% sure the sudden interest in Podrick is my own preference coming into play. He’s just… SO LOYAL AND PURE. MAKE MY BOY A KNIGHT ALREADY, BRIENNE. Keep in mind when reading that any romance is tertiary to the plot, and will usually be more of an afterthought/unintentional detail from the writer.


	11. Arlyse Baratheon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the woods brings Lady Arlyse poor news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, I’ll be spoon-feeding information about the Stormlands, canon and my own creative license, in small doses so as not to be too expository.

The dappled grey palfrey between her legs was not as thick as Pepper, but his legs were longer, setting Arlyse half a hand above nearly everyone else in her party. The Kingswood stretched for miles, and while the forest was home to more maples, oaks, and redwoods than evergreens, the high canopy and whispering brush eased the tension in the woman’s shoulders that had been ailing her since abandoning the familiarity of the North. She looked to the young Shireen, Lord Stannis’ disfigured daughter. The girl wore a wool cloak over a simple green gown, only seen from the sleeves trimmed in yellow cloth. The gray of the cloak appeared smooth against the sickly gray of the left half of her face, which was rough and dry and hard like stone or scales like the disease’s namesake. “Does it hurt?”   
“No,” Shireen answered in surprise, “I can’t feel much of anything, actually.”   
Arlyse reached out to the girl with familiar blue eyes and big ears, and Shireen gratefully accepted her hand. They trekked a while in silence before the horses begun to get spooked. Just then a massive boar came squealing out of the bracken and tore through the middle of the party and caused the Baratheon girls and a few others to be thrown from their horses. Arlyse rolled head over heels into a steep ravine. She caught herself just before slipping into a rocky gorge. Shireen was not so lucky, slipping right between cracks and straight into the tiny stream. Arlyse stepped carefully to stand over the girl.   
“Shireen! Shireen, are you alright?” The woman leaned over the trapped girl and reached her hand down. Ser Davos was beside her and the two took an arm each to pull the girl out of the ditch. Lord Stannis took her into his arms when they came upon the ridge. Arlyse found her palfrey, but Shireen’s horse was long gone, so the girl rode with her. Shireen chatted about the name of the grey and told the woman about the chestnut brown filly she had at home.   
“So, tell me, little lady, what are your favorite houses of the Stormlands?”   
“Well my mother’s house is Florent, and we have cousins in house Estermont. I suppose my favorites are Seaworth, Dondarrion, and Tarth, though.”   
“Why those houses?”   
“Well Seaworth is the house of Ser Davos. He has a wife and seven sons on Cape Wrath. Seaworths are sworn to Dragonstone, but the others will be your vassals. Dondarrion is a marcher house: they are loyal and will respect the King’s choice, but Blackhaven is nestled deep the Dornish marches. House Tarth will be loyal to you. they live on an island and the waters around Tarth sparkle like sapphires. They’re only a strait from your call.”   
“Loyalty is earned, little fawn, and I’m afraid right now their loyalties lay with Lord Renly.”   
Ser Davos chuckled from beside them. “It’s true. Lordship can be gifted, bought, or stolen, but not loyalty. If you keep using that head of yours, my Lady, you will earn their loyalty in time.”   
…  
Arlyse could see the edges of the Kingswood and anxiety settled like a tight corset made from iron ribs. She longed for the forests full of bears but knew there was no going back. Trotting hooves approached from the south, and the only thing stopping the woman from drawing her sword was the lack of reaction from the others. She did unsheathe a dagger from her hip and pass it off to Shireen. Three men on horseback emerged at the crest of the hill and slowly descended. The leader, a salt-and-pepper man with a large smile greeted Lord Stannis. Shireen stopped admiring the rugged dagger long enough to identify him as Lord Harwood Fell of Felwood, and his companions as his heir Jaxar and Lord Ralph Buckler of Bronzegate. Davos patted the grey palfrey and he trotted mostly of his own volition to stand beside Stannis.   
“Lord Fell,” Stannis nodded his head, “this is Lady Arlyse Baratheon.”   
The older man’s eyebrows disappeared into the sweeping fringe of his hair, but the smile returned full force and he dipped his head respectfully.   
“I pray you forgive me, my Lady, we did not know what to expect when we were told Lord Renly would be replaced by one of the King’s bastards. You can imagine our surprise to see you are also a woman.”   
“An observation I am sure I will be reminded of frequently.” Lord Fell laughed unoffended. “Have you come this way only to see me in the flesh, or have you more to offer?”   
“I am pleased to say my son and I have come to escort our ladyship to Storm’s End, as Lord Stannis has urgent need in Dragonstone.” Eyes exchanged glances throughout the party as the unexpected news of trouble rippled like water. “Pirates, I am afraid. Your castellan sent word this morning to King’s Landing and to us in the event you had already left on your journey.”   
Lord Fell passed the tiny parchment to Stannis and his eyes scanned the page rapidly before he thanked the Lords for their intervention. The stoic man apologized for the inconvenience and took Shireen on his steed before departing with the rest of the party and Lord Buckler to Wendwater river, leaving Arlyse with the two Fell men. They trotted in silence on the Kingsroad until Jaxar found a need to fill it.   
“May I ask where you are from, my lady? We know only that you were a Snow.” Lord Fell glanced disapprovingly at his son but did not verbally reprimand him.   
“Bear Island. Practically the opposite of the continent, in the northwest corner of the North in the Bay of Ice.”   
“Do all the women of Bear Island carry swords?”   
“Not all, but Bear Island is frequently attacked by Wildlings and Invaders from the Pyke Islands. There is also the matter of many bears to fear as well.” Jaxar nodded in interest and adjusted himself in his saddle. Finally clearing the thicket of the Kingswood, the group came upon a small town towered over by a hilled castle she presumed was Bronzegate. The stonework of the castle was heavily adorned with bronze statues of animals and warriors. They stopped to rest a spell in the next town over still under the hovering figure of the castle. Jaxar and Harwood appeared almost as eager to drink the tavern’s ale as she was. The barley based beverage was not as strong or sweet as the ale in the North, but it served its purpose well enough for the rigid woman.   
“How many bears must there be on an island to be called as such? And what kind of madmen choose to live in a place seemingly overrun by them?” Jaxar pitched the question so drunkenly it seemed he did not drink often, if at all.   
Arlyse turned her attention from the rambling man. “Tell me about your house, Lord Harwood. Whatever you can think of—paint me a picture of the Fells of the Stormlands.”   
The man tipped his wooden cup while Jaxar became distracted by a particularly busty barmaid. “I will do my best, my lady. Where to begin? You have met my son of course, but you could not know of my daughters and my grandson Kegan. My Kristyne is twenty, how old are you?”   
“Two and twenty. You may call me Arlyse, sir. What of your lands and your banner?”   
“I rule from my home in Felwood, some ways from the King’s Road but still in the Kingswood, you see. As for my banner,” he lifted his fist and worked the dark iron from his finger to drop it in her palm. The signet ring depicted a forest at night, with a crescent moon hanging in the black sky.   
“There is a house on Bear Island with something akin to this. House Newfrost. Their field is snow and the moon a white raven. The house founder claimed to be descended from the Targaryens, I was disappointed as a child to learn they had not adopted a dragon instead. Lord Daemon and his brood certainly look Valyrian, I’ll give them that.”   
“In my prime, they called me Silveraxe.”   
“For your dashing silver hair,” Arlyse offered with a smirk.   
“For his prowess in battle. House Fell fought for the Mad King during the rebellion, but my father was pardoned and allowed to keep his title. Some were not so lucky.” Jaxar said nothing more of it, and Harwood offered no words. A seriousness set in the Silveraxe’s eyes and the son saw fit to find temporary company elsewhere.   
“Have the lords who sent you here told you about Edric?”   
“Excuse me?”   
“Edric, your half brother. Renly’s ward, actually, the boy has spent his entire life in Storm’s End. When the other lords and I were informed Lord Renly would be replaced, we expected Edric to be legitimized. You should know this because some lords are already upset about being ruled by an outsider, and will be less than enthused when they hear you are a woman.”   
“I knew I was not the King’s only bastard, but apparently no one thought it important enough to tell me I would be living with one.” Arlyse glared at the cup of barley ale in an attempt to intimidate it into something stronger. At least Lord Renly was some distance away from the Stormlands, but an apparently beloved native living under her feet? She thought a moment about crushing his neck beneath her boot but dismissed it as killing a child would not earn her favor from anyone. “You have been honest so far, I think. What should I anticipate about my dear brother? Aside from the obvious resentment he no doubt already harbors for me.”   
“Edric is only ten, but he is bull-headed and brash despite his mentor’s demeanor.”   
“Sounds charming.” Arlyse downed the last drop of ale in her cup and set it upon the table. It was quickly refilled by the busty barmaid who she had heard called Prya.   
“It is my understanding that most Baratheons are stubborn and difficult.”   
“I’ll drink to that. And had Renly decided to wait two years before stepping down, I’m sure I would still be hunting squirrels and killing wildlings in the North.”   
“Strange pastime you Northerners have. But then I’m sure there isn’t much entertainment in a place of permanent winter,” Harwood jested and watched her flip her cup top down on the table as she chuckled and hiccupped softly. “Shall I collect Jaxar so we may continue our ride?”   
“The sooner the better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only canon house on Bear Island is Mormont, but with such commanding loyalty, I figure the house must have its own vassals, albeit very small and insignificant ones. On a side note, only Jaxar’s eyes wander, he is happily married and wishes to stay that way. I’m really glad I got back into this series, sometimes you have to step back and ignore something for a while to come back refreshed.


	12. Tyrion Lannister II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion attends lunch with the Starks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no reason this chapter should have taken this long to write, I just knew I didn’t know what I wanted out of it. On another note, THIS STORY I NOT DEAD I PROMISE

Another morning, another frustrating meeting with the Small Council. King Robert was sleeping off last night’s drink and so was absent from the hellish bickering. Most meetings consisted of everyone having alternative solutions to an issue and never being able to compromise, or having a few people agree on two different solutions and acting like stubborn asses, but both resulted in nothing getting done. The crown was still deeply indebted to Tyrion’s father and criminal activities were still rampantly spreading beyond Flea Bottom’s boundaries in King’s Landing. Demands for more men to man the Wall in the north were becoming desperate, meanwhile, the commoners from the Bay of Crabs down to Shipbreakers Bay were suffering from the attacks of the Gilded, a group of men pillaging but who could not be identified aside from a rumor that the men were made of gold. Tyrion sipped from his goblet like his life depended on it and refused to release it from his grasp as he was on the cusp of simply drinking straight from the bottle.   
“Shall I fetch you more wine, master Tyrion,” asked the young squire in red leather. The dwarf was fit to respond positively but thought better of the awful hangover he would suffer simply from being too drunk. He begrudgingly declined and instead commanded Podrick to fetch him some sweetwater and whatever the kitchen maids suggest as a trick to sobering up a little.   
Bronn had disappeared some time ago after a few particularly curved handmaidens caught his attention, and now Tyrion found himself alone for the first time today. He thought briefly of the hypocrisy of it all: judging the King for his excessive drinking when he too fell prey to the mercy of perfectly fermented fruit on a daily basis. However, Tyrion was not the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and certainly not given to wasting money by organizing expensive tournaments and neglecting his duties to the realm, so he dusted the shame from his sleeve. Tyrion thought of Joffrey and Tommen a moment, he wondered what they thought of their father’s habits, and if the boys might fall to his weaknesses when they grow older. He sent a silent prayer to the gods old and new for the realm that might one day know Joffrey as their King, a spoiled brat of a man with an appetite for violence and drink.   
Podrick return with the sweetwater and some raw eggs, which already had the bile in Tyrion’s stomach rising.   
“Damn you, boy, sometimes I wish you were lazy like all the other squires,” Tyrion muttered as he took the cup and hesitated before taking a terrible sip. He nearly empties his stomach right then and there, but swallowed the mouthful indignantly and proceeded to down the rest as fast as possible. His stomach twisted and turned as the lemon and honey infused water was not nearly strong enough to squelch the slimy taste of raw egg. Whereas any other person would at least snicker politely, Podrick stood by, ready to fetch his master anything else he requested with a polite, boyish smile on his lips.   
“My lord, the Hand of the King and his brother Lord Brandon Stark have requested your presence for the noon meal,” said Podrick.   
“Very well,” Tyrion rubbed his forehead and adjusted his boots. “We will adjourn at my apartments to change and head to the Hand’s tower.”   
…  
“Are you positive it was Lord Eddard who summoned me,” Tyrion asked in disbelief.   
“It was a northern guardsman who approached me, and he named both of the Starks in the invitation,” Podrick replied.   
“No doubt to stare coldly at me until I turn to ice. The Starks are not fond of Lannisters.”   
“So I have heard, my lord.” They stopped outside of the tower and were escorted by a young Northman who had hair to his shoulders. Tyrion had seen the young man several times and believed him to be called Jory Cassel. Well respected and loved, especially by the Stark daughters, or so young Myrcella had told him. Ser Jory brought the Lannister dwarf and his squire to the dining room where the lords and Lady Stark were awaiting them.   
Lord Brandon had been mid conversation with Lord Eddard, and though Lady Stark stood between them, they did not appear to be addressing her. In her arms was the youngest Stark, and beside her feet lay an exceptionally black direwolf. The presence of the creatures always set Tyrion on edge as their sheer size at so young an age lent to their wild nature that suggested they should have made terrible pets. No one in Casterly Rock owned lions, yet it seemed that the wolves of House Stark were wild enough that the actual beasts must have thought of them as a part of their pack regardless of their upright walk and furless bodies.   
Tyrion set his hand upon his chest and bowed respectfully towards the Lady, the only one to notice his entrance. “Good afternoon. Shall the rest of your clan be joining us for dinner?”   
Lady Stark’s eyes narrowed. He supposed that despite being raised in house Tully, she had taken to her role as the Lady of Winterfell exceptionally well. Only Lord Brandon smiled his way, but even that was tempered with caution.   
“Lord Tyrion. I was wondering if you had received my invitation, but now I am pleased to see you have.” Rickon had woken from his nap and begun to fight his mother, so his father plucked the babe from her arms and set him on his feet and let him wander with the direwolf at his heels. “My son Robb will be joining us soon, but has informed me that he would like us to start without him.”   
The group sat around the table, even Podrick at the insistence of Lady Stark, or Lady Catelyn as her husband says. Some pleasant small talk had filled the room until it was interrupted by the mouthwatering smell of food, and the table silenced all words for the sound of silver utensils clinking in wood bowls of venison soup.   
As they ate, Tyrion got a good look at the brothers. Both shared the long face and grey eyes characteristic of a Stark, though Eddard seemed to have a slightly darker tone in his hair and skin than Brandon did. Lady Catelyn had fair skin and hair like fire that fell in gentle waves tied by strings in intervals that pressed the pouring river of blood into orbs and disappeared beneath the table. When she had been standing before, he had seen the hair dip far beyond her waist to where he believed her knees resided, and her blue eyes seemed to have drunk the rivers of the Tridents. They were just as cold as northern rivers when she looked at those she did not trust.   
Just as Tyrion was trying to scour his brain for the colors of house Tully, the heavy wooden door to the room swung open. A single look and Tyrion knew he was the heir to Winterfell. Tully red hair and blue eyes, but his long face and the brownish tint in his curly locks gave way to the Stark in him. He appeared to be around the same age as Joffrey, perhaps slightly older with his facial hair sparse and his cheeks still quite soft. The boy stepped into the room like he was a larger man, and his grey direwolf followed in his path. It seemed they had grown some from the last time he had seen them. Young Bran’s direwolf had been at the height of a man’s knees when they had stopped for rest at the inn in the Neck, but Robb and Rickon’s beasts were as high as midthigh today. Tyrion tried to tell himself that their thick pelts made them twice as big, but he knew deep down that they were far from finished growing. It did not ease his discomfort knowing there were a total of six of them lurking inside the castle.   
“Robb, so glad you could finally join us,” a surprisingly warm tone came from Lord Eddard. It was a gentle, prodding sarcasm that Tyrion had not been aware the holier-than-thou man was capable of.   
The young wolf smiled. “Forgive me, Uncle, Lyanne had asked me to play a short game, and how could I say no to my little sister?”   
Ned and Brandon hummed like they did not quite believe him, but they allowed the falsehood to slide. Robb perched himself in the seat between Lord Eddard and Catelyn and lifted his eyes a moment from the cooling food to see Tyrion across from him. His fists remained balls on the table and his content demeanor seemed to shift before he settled into an upright position in his seat and looked at everyone around the table. “Forgive me, I was not aware we were having guests.”   
As the men dug back into their meals, Lady Catelyn was the one to answer him. “You would have been warned if you had been here on time.”   
The rest of the meeting dissolved into relative small talk, however, Tyrion sensed that the older Starks had something more in mind. Perhaps they were scoping Tyrion out. He was the least openly hostile towards their family, it was plausible that they were hoping for the Lannister man to reveal some deep, dark secret so that they might exploit it. Not exactly following with the Stark’s famed honesty, but Tyrion rarely put stock into public reputations. He had seen for himself that some men changed drastically behind closed doors. Perhaps that was it, the Stark men wanted to see for themselves how trustworthy Tyrion was. The blond looked to Podrick, who was deftly avoiding the Lady Stark’s intimidating gaze. In that respect, she reminded him much of his sister Cersei, though she had not touched a drop of wine nor attempted to join the men’s conversation during the entire meal.   
The food had been eaten an hour ago, the leftovers divided among the guardsmen in another room. With full bellies and contented moods, Tyrion finally spoke more than simple words.   
“Now that the very long pleasantries have passed, how about we discuss a more pressing matter: am I correct in assuming you’ve brought me here to discuss the Lady Arlyse?” The Starks around the table exchanging unreadable glances.   
Lord Brandon cleared his throat before answering. “My brother and a few others have brought to my attention that this young girl may be in danger.”   
“Every noble bastard is subject to scrutiny,” Tyrion tested.   
“Not every bastard becomes a lord,” Eddard said. “Not since the Blackfyre Rebellion.”   
“And not every bastard is so obvious a threat to the royal succession,” Catelyn added.   
“This is a grievous truth, and one I have considered myself.” Tyrion swirled the wine in his cup thoughtfully. “What concern is her success to you, though?”   
Robb’s back straightened like a rod. “Lady Arlyse will make the Stormlands stronger than ever before. I have heard tell the Queen had a pair of twin babes murdered for sharing the King’s blood, right here in King’s Landing beneath his nose. What will come of Arlyse if the Queen, your sister, gets her hands on her? What of the Stormlands?”   
“A noble stance, of course. Forgive me if I am not convinced that your conviction is not personal,” Tyrion told the boy.   
“We share in his hope for the future of the realm,” Brandon countered, “but allowing nobility to continue to take lives without consequence affects the entire realm.”   
“Without accountability, law is futile.” Eddard stared hard into the heart of the dwarf.   
“If we cannot hold a noble accountable for their actions, we must at least do everything we can to prevent them from abusing their power.”   
“And here,” Tyrion smiled, “is where we come to an agreement.”   
…  
Lord Tyrion retired to his study that night with the Baratheon girl in mind. Podrick lay half asleep in a lounging chair by the window, and Bronn had audaciously passed out on Tyrion’s bed as soon as they had returned to his suite. The dwarf grumbled under his breath, wishing the rest that came so easily to them would do the same for him.   
It was becoming increasingly clearer to him that the former bastard had absolutely no chance of ruling to begin with. She had no experience to speak of, no formal training like her royal half siblings had and knew nothing of the land or the people she would be expected to suddenly take great care of. Even with the brief guidance of Lord Stannis, she would be on her own, floundering for purchase among the rocks of a great storm and praying it was a solid one. If she was not dead by the end of the sevenday, it would be because the gods had willed it. The conversation with the Starks had been focused on the threat from the capital, mainly Cersei, but Tyrion believed the danger she faced the most stemmed from her destination. The houses home to the Stags who overthrew the Targaryen dynasty were a proud and conservative people, and with the established threat of usurpers, Arlyse would have no choice but to face issues from within. It disturbed him greatly to think that she likely did not fully understand the gravity of the threat to her seat, and Tyrion quickly downed the rest of his cup and refilled it in the hopes that these plaguing thoughts might be drowned and silenced until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not dead and neither is this story.


	13. Arlyse Baratheon II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The castle of Storm's End appears to be as empty as it is cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! I bet you weren't antipipating TWO CHAPTERS THIS WEEK. We made it, finally in the place where the majority of the story will take place. I'm having fun learning about the architecture of medieval castles.

The Lords of Felwood had been decent company, decent enough to attempt to explain the legend behind the great fort at the top of a massive cliffside as they came upon it. This story, however, went over their Lady’s head as she took in the familiar taste of salt in the air, so like her first home and yet completely strange and alien. The breeze that crossed from the ocean over the open moor rustled the tall grass and buffeted the sturdy walls of the fortress. It pushed the short hairs back from her face to tickle her ears and cool her sun reddened cheeks. The songs of the birds were neither the larks of King’s Landing nor the owls of Bear Island, but rather screeching gray and white birds the size of cats with bright orange beaks and legs. They weren’t completely unseen in the north, but were rare and considered beach scavengers. Arlyse had seen many buildings made from stone since she had crossed into the mainland, but not since the neck had she seen something that reminded her so much of Winterfell. The walls that guarded Storm’s End kept the interior a mystery aside from the crown of battlements that should have been the Keep.   
“Why is the castle unguarded?”  
No one answered her, but Jaxar did shrug beneath his heavy, black cloak. The group met no one at the gate, and still, no one came as the three visitors dismounted and hollered to get the attention of anyone other than the beach scavengers. Lord Harwood stepped up to Arlyse and seemed concerned. “This has never happened before.”   
Arlyse marched up to the gate and climbed hand over hand over the blackened ash reinforced with wrought iron crossings, the portcullis. The rough metal bit into her hands as she ascended, reaching the top in moments and pulling her frame uncomfortably through the larger gaps at the top beneath the thick, stone wall. Feet first, she was sure she had torn the inside of her trousers on a particularly sharp edge, especially as she brushed her fingers over the rusting crossing and slicing two of the tips. She hissed through her teeth but did not release her hold on the portcullis, instead reaching behind herself and forcibly kicking the thick, wooden door. The loud rattle shook her entire body and vibrated lightly through the portcullis, and the rattle was followed by a screeching as a sliver of light poured through the new gap. She struck the door again and the gap grew, and as she struck the door again she felt the gate shake as Jaxar and Harwood kicked the door from the ground level.   
When the gap was wide enough, she descended and slipped between the door and stepped into the bailey. Her eyes swept over the horse stables, empty of men and caretakers. She spotted an armory and training grounds, the only other things in the bailey as Storm’s End possessed an inner wall.   
“Uh, Lady Baratheon,” Jaxar called. His voice was muffled by distance and two heavy doors. The chaffing and soreness of her thighs  
Arlyse sprinted to the stables, released the first horse by the entrance, and tied the rope hanging from the door around his neck before slapping the gelding’s flank. The horse stomped away, and the woman took the opportunity to gain some leverage by using all her strength to pull it open further until the momentum of the swinging became too much for her. As a team, the three gripped the portcullis by the base and raised it, the iron modifications adding serious weight to the structure.   
“This is unsettling,” the Silveraxe mumbled, “the Castellan has never shown such negligence. I don’t feel we should leave you here alone, my Lady.”   
“I am sure there is a reasonable explanation for their absences, lord Harwood,” Arlyse said. “besides, if they wanted my head they would have attacked me from the safety of the wall rather than watch me struggle to enter unassisted.”   
Jaxar cleared his throat. “Somewhat assisted.”   
“Quite adequately assisted,” Arlyse smiled. “Thank you. The both of you, I owe you my gratitude and hope to repay you for your welcome.”   
The men bowed their heads in unison and retraced their steps home. Not even when they were specks on the moor did the castle stir, so Arlyse began to investigate. The white faced palfrey Arlyse rode seemed contented to loiter in the bailey, but the gelding was curious enough to trail behind her on spindly legs. She collected her sword and cruised unabated through the arch of the secondary wall, rising on the steps to an elevated bailey. Here she found the grounds divided, a quick walkabout revealed four sections, the thick walls likely containing hallways leading between the keep at the center to the inner wall’s angular towers. She brushed her hand over the callous, strong rock columns carrying the connecting walls and opening the bailey on the ground level.   
There were several insignificant structures in the yard, but Arlyse decided to set her sights on the main goal: the keep. The round tower, like the giant wall that guarded it against the rest of the world, was perfectly constructed, not a stone out of place. It rose into the sky, and from a distance mimicked the form of a spiked fist. No matter how far back she craned her neck she still could not see the tower properly, and she decided that she needed to see the castle from the top.   
The stairs spiraled step after step after step after step along the outside of the wall. The climb was disoriented among other things, and as the woman—and the determined gelding—rose to the height of the protective walls, the open sky was a welcome sight, even as her vision swam and her head spun. The stairs ended on the eastern side of the tower, opposite the fortress’ entrance. The pale grey stone overpowered the greenery below, but could not hide the thick bank of darkening grey clouds the touched the black blue ocean. The water was fierce, and though she could not see it touch the shore, she heard the angry crashing of the waves over the rocks behind the wall. Far across the sea she spotted an island, sat where the water was the bluest and glistened like sapphire despite the hidden sun. Arlyse sent a silent prayer that the island was a part of the Stormlands just so that she might see the water closer. It took all of her willpower to rip her eyes from the sapphire isle and to the oak wood door. Inside the keep was another reminder of home that loosened the tension in her shoulders. Wood floors gave way to openly spaced furniture and sparse yet tasteful decorations, of stags and of forests, of beautiful maidens and dashing knights, and of storms. Tapestries a century old and paintings filled with faces she knew were Baratheons. And sitting at a desk with a candle and a parchment was a surprised man.   
The dull, undyed cotton of his robes and the assortment of thick, metal rings worn around his neck meant that he was the castle’s Maester. His balding hair was silvery blond and the sparse hair on his chin was firmly gray, his ears pronounce and his eyebrows rose high. He was expecting a man, she thought.   
“Excuse me,” the Maester’s voice was mousy and mildly irate, “but who are you, and how did you enter this establishment?”   
“My name is Arlyse Baratheon,” she answered, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. “And your gates were wholly unguarded.”   
“Your gates, now,” the Maester corrected and grumbled under his breath about lazy guards and unexpected visitors. He suddenly stood from his chair and bowed his head respectfully before crossing his hands at his hips.   
“Forgive us, my Lady, we were not expecting you for several days at least,” the man said. “I am Maester Jurne, and I do hope it will be a great honor to serve you. I would like to apologize further for the vulnerability that has befallen the castle—I cannot fathom where the guards and servants have disappeared to, but I may know of one who does.”   
All the woman gave him was a short nod, and the pair set off through the keep, this time on the inside. The gelding whinnied through the door but the pair did not heed his call. As they passed through the halls, Maester Jurne explained that the keep had been previously run by the Castellan Cortnay Penrose in Lord Renly’s stead. He described the man as honorable with a short temper and a permanent scowl. Cortnay is the son of Lord Robbard Penrose of Parchments, a castle to the north of Storm’s End. They found the man whittling a practice sword, carving knots and stags into the crossing guard. He looked up from his work and glared at the newcomers, the red spade fur on his chin doing nothing to hide the deep set frown on his lips.   
“Cortnay, this is… the new Lord. As I’m sure you can see, she is the King’s daughter, not the son we were expecting,” Maester Jurne introduced without confidence.   
“Yes, I can see that.” The Castellan set the sword aside and stood awkwardly before Arlyse, only bowing to mask his face as she was the height of well bred men. “I thought I would have been alerted by the guards at your arrival.”   
“Ah,” Arlyse said facetiously, “so you haven’t seen them either. It seems the mystery continues.”   
Castellan Cortnay appeared floored for a moment, but then his eyes grew hard and drifted away from her. Without a word, he marched through the Keep with the Maester and the woman in tow until they reached a floor where at last they found six guards arranged outside of the largest door in the hallway. Some of the younger guards appeared to be frightful and nervous, wringing their hands and glancing at each other for reassurance, while the older, more experienced guards had scowls that matched their commanders. All of the men stood at attention when the Castellan came into view, but only the younger ones noticed Arlyse’s presence with a deal of confusion. The men parted like the sea in the wake of an angry ship around the Castellan, who slammed his fist on the door to the library and demanded entrance.   
“Edric!” He pounded his fists again before anyone could answer him. “Edric open this door immediately, you spoiled bastard, do you hear me?”   
The door cracked open slowly and a boy no older than ten stood in the doorway looking mildly annoyed. Arlyse could not believe her eyes. She gently took the elbow of the Maester and the two put their backs to the scene behind them. “Am I to understand the disappearance of the guards and servants is due to this one child?”   
Maester Jurne nodded. “Lord Edric may be young, but Lord Renly put a lot of his faith in the boy and, for the most part, he has proven himself to be an excellent leader.” The sounds of whining and scolding drifted over their shoulders and the two were momentarily distracted. “That is, most of the time.”   
“—this is not over, boy,” the Castellan reemerged and with a sweep of his hand sent the guards back to their posts, all of the men breathing a collective sigh of relief. When the room had cleared, a surprising number of guards and handmaidens pouring out of the library, red faced and teary eyed Edric poked his head out only to slam the door so hard it shook on its hinges. Cortnay ran his hand over his bald head and through his trim facial hair before returning his attention almost challengingly towards Arlyse. “Would you like to punish the little lord, my Lady?”   
Arlyse loved challenges, but knew now was neither the time nor the place. She swallowed the spite on her tongue and watched the door where her bastard half brother had locked himself away. “I think the boy needs time to adjust. Besides, we live together now—he’ll have to join us for dinner sometime.”   
The Maester chuckled and the Castellan remained stoic, but the thought of food had the three wandering towards the kitchens to fill their bellies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edric, you little shit, already causing trouble YOU'RE, LIKE, TEN.


	14. Storm's End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lords flock to Storm’s End for a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Only ten days to write this.

Supper the following night was pleasant, and Maester Jurne did his best to uphold amiable conversation with the newcomer. He asked about her mother and seemed genuinely apologetic when the Lady told him that she did not know her well. In return, Arlyse asked him about the chain around his neck. He explained that each link symbolized his proficiency in specific subjects and that he was considered a Maester for having completed his chain and spoken the Citadel’s vows. The silver links symbolized his expertise in medicine, black iron to symbolize ravenry, and a few others such as gold, bronze, rose gold, and pewter.   
The tension in Arlyse’s shoulders relaxed, but the swelling sensation behind her eyes was becoming progressively worse by the time her third plate was empty. She excused herself and retired to her bedchambers, thankfully there was a handmaiden ready to show her to her quarters. Arlyse stripped herself of her boots and leathers and trousers, remembering the way everyone seemed to stare in awe at her attire. Dames, Arlyse quickly learned, were incredibly uncommon in Westeros, and the only known Dame in the Stormlands was a woman by the name of Brienne Tarth. Maester Jurne had informed Arlyse that the sapphire isle was actually the woman’s birthplace, and the Lord of house Tarth as well as some of the other Stormlanders were coming to Storm’s End soon. Her eyes slid shut as she dropped on top of the blankets and furs that lined her soft bed, which she knew had once belonged to her father’s brother. She wondered for a moment if it had been Edric’s bed too and if the poor boy had been removed from his living quarters in order to make room for her.   
Arlyse tugged roughly at the ties of her tunic and ripped it from over her head to dispose of her small clothes and replace the fabric with fur, burying her face into the bedding and hoping for sleep to take her pain and frustration away.   
…  
The next morning, Arlyse washed and dressed with the help of Semna, the handmaiden from the night before. Senma was a girl of only ten and five, and beneath her blonde lashes and tight lipped face, the girl appeared to be holding her tongue. As the woman was in no mood to pry words from her mouth, Arlyse ignored the strange attitude and met with Maester Jurne in the rookery as requested. The man was feeding the white ravens when Arlyse arrived, dressed in the soft green gown that once belonged to her mother.   
“Like a true northern lady,” the Maester commented teasingly before dipping his head in greeting. “Here is the letter I told you about before.”   
He tried to hand the paper to Arlyse, but she retaliated by placing her hand over his and gently pushing it away, averting her eyes towards her very visible slippers. She took a deep breath and exhaled as much embarrassment as she could.   
“I’m afraid my reading skills are poor,” she said. “I always did prefer to hunt.”   
“Didn’t the King send your invitation by raven?”   
“The words were read to me.” Arlyse straightened her back and peered at the man in defiance. “However, I can recite them as I have heard them, rest assured my memory is very strong.”   
Maester Jurne nodded and read from the parchment. “’To the Lord Baratheon of Storm’s End, the bannermen of the Stormlands would like to meet you, and plans have been arranged by some to arrive in two days. We are eager to meet you and pray that your days as Lord are peaceful and prosperous.’ This message was sent by Lord Howell Dondarrion of Blackhaven.”   
“Eager to meet me, or eager to mount my head on a pike,” Arlyse asked, smiling stiffly.   
“Lord Dondarrion is a very honorable young man, I can assure you he will defend your head even at the cost of his own.”   
Arlyse nodded. He did not speak for the other lords, but one so respected was something she knew she could work with. The description of the Lord reminded her very much of the Quiet Wolf in King’s Landing. “Your praise and opinion are of great comfort. However, I shall have to see that for myself, as it seems we are the only ones who know I am no Lord.”   
“It is my duty—and my pleasure—my Lady.” Maester Jurne bowed his head with a hand across his heart, just below his chain. A beach bird cawed overheard, and Arlyse saw an opportunity arise. She grabbed the Maester by his elbow and began escorting him out of the rookery and down into the bailey, not exactly sure where she was heading.   
“And what of my duties, Maester. What exactly is the Lady of the Stormlands expected to do?” Tyrion had tried to help her, listing off a plethora of potential problems that could arise and how he might go about solving them, while Renly had told her to smile and keep the peace. Neither conversation had given her the information she desired, though.   
“Well,” he began, “the duty of the Lady Paramount is to enforce the King’s Justice. Your bannermen will come to you seeking judgment, your word will be the final say to end all disputes over land or property or slights, both real and perceived. It is your duty to be fair, to seek the truth and dole out the most appropriate punishments. You will also be expected to oversee marriage arrangements, community festivities, and trade.”   
“Some of this sounds more like Lady’s duties,” Arlyse commented.   
Maester Jurne huffed in agreement. “And as an unmarried Warden, you will be expected to perform the duties of the Lord and the Lady.”   
Her heart beat faster and her legs twitched beneath her too short skirts. The duties of a lady were things she never expected to be graced with, being born just low enough to never be head of House Mormont. And any thoughts of administering justice higher than thieving wildlings was never a question she had struggled with as the answer would always be when the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. As her excitement grew, so did her fear. She sent a silent prayer to the weirwood trees bearing the old god’s eyes, the forests of her home, and her heart sinks a bit that she is surrounded by perfectly cured stone rather than the acres of trees she was accustomed to. Many questions arose from the depths of her head, but she was careful to hold her tongue until later. For now, the pair found themselves atop the outer wall, walking along the battlements with a view of the rolling grasslands and hills and the seashore.   
“The sea. What is it called?”   
“Shipbreaker’s Bay,” the Maester answered. “And this castle is set on Durran’s Point.”   
“A place of stories,” she admitted, hopefully. She squeezed his arm as he escorted her around get the best view of the bay from the outer wall. The Maester chuckled, very comfortable in her company.   
“Indeed. The bay is named as the land, for the treacherous summer storms that befall it. Many a ship were lost to these waters, sad to say one such ship carried the late Lord Steffon and his wife, Lady Cassana.”   
“Did you know them?” He gazed over the blinding light reflecting off of the unusually calm sea while she watched his face twitch and grin.   
“Aye,” he said. “Lord Steffon was a good man. A squire in the War of the Ninepennies King and a trusted cousin to King Aerys.”   
“You mean the Mad King?”   
“Mad indeed. Thankfully his madness did not seem to infect the stags.”   
“And what of Lady Cassana? What was she like.” Three dots on the water had drifted close enough to form the shape of ships each flying banners she could not see past the blinding water.   
“A treasure. Lady Cassana ran a respected household and seemed set to clothe all of the young girls and brides in the Kingdom. Lord Renly took to his mother the most.”   
The three ships were close enough now that their banners were visible: one ship bore a quartered pattern, a sun on pink and a moon on blue, another ship bore the sigil of a green sea creature on a lighter green field, and the last ship bore a white owl atop a grey field.   
“I only pray I will be remembered with such fondness.”   
…  
This is very, very not good. Howell Dondarrion rode atop a black destrier stead alongside Bryen Caron and his son, who did not seem at all bothered by the recent news. A woman? The capital had sent a woman to replace Lord Renly? And a bastard, when they had a perfectly good one already living in Storm’s End. It had been four days since she had arrived on horseback, and three since the Maester of Blackhaven had alerted him to a raven sent by Lady Mertyns. The man was doing his best to control his breathing, he did not want to think of the mess that the Baratheon would wrought when the other lords discovered the secret. He could already see the smug mockery that Ser Jon would likely wear and prayed he would not simply draw his sword to strike her where she stood. Or better still would it be if he did not appear at all as he said he would. Howell’s mind raced and he desperately wished his wife Allyria had come with him.   
The men arrived at the gates to find none other than the fiery haired Connington and Lord Estermont being let into the gates. The man in black and purple of house Dondarrion straightened his back and avoided eye contact with the Lord of Griffin’s Roost. Lord Harwood and his companions, Jaxar, Sessa, Kevan, and Kegan were dismounting their horses and passing them off to the stable hands. They congregated far too slowly for the nervous man’s liking around Cortnay, who had come to greet them.   
“The Lady Baratheon is waiting for you in the Great Hall,” he said brusquely.   
At least half of the company stiffened. Howell did not chance a look at Connington but knew the man was pink in the face. “Let’s not keep her waiting any longer then.”  
Inside the Hall, there was quite a crowd already gathered. Young Edric was being held via his collar by Maester Jurne, who smiled amiably as if nothing was amiss. Lady Mertyns had taken up residence between her pretty daughter Dyana and Selwyn Tarth. Lord Gulian Swann was noticeably uncomfortable and continually glanced between the newly arrived lords. Perhaps the most surprising of the company was Lord Stannis and his entourage. And finally, the only unfamiliar face in the crowd. A very tall woman stood beside Stannis, looking every bit a Baratheon. She wore a black and gold coat around her shoulders, cut in the common style of other Stormland ladies, with widened sleeves around her elbows and the hem only hip low. Brilliant green flowed out from beneath it, the hems of which bore dark green turtles like the ones Lord Eldon wore. Her eyes were as blue as iris flowers and her ebony hair loosely tied behind her head. Lady Baratheon’s jaw was a soft square and her shoulders wide, her lips tight in her smile and her hands politely crossed before her. It was only as he finished stepping towards the group that he realized she was looking directly at him.   
“You must be Lord Dondarrion,” she bowed her head lightly. “I have heard a great deal about you.”   
“All good things, I hope,” he replied, which prompted her smile to gain a semblance of sincerity.   
She looked to Lord Stannis before addressing the entire company.   
“As you have likely figured by now: I am Arlyse Baratheon. And it is true that not a week ago I was a bastard living on Bear Island.” Some in the crowd shifted with an air of agitation, but none challenged her in the presence of her uncle. “This will be a difficult adjustment—for all of us—but I am confident that the decision of the King and the Small Council was ultimately the right one.”   
“That remains to be seen,” Lady Mertyns commented, drawing the eyes of everyone and raising the temperature of the room.   
“So it is,” Lady Baratheon replied with no signs of disapproval or offense, “and I intend to earn my title. May I call upon your counsel, Lady Mertyns?”   
Everybody waited with baited breath for her to answer, some hoping for the Lady of Mistwood to put the girl in her place. But instead, she grinned, all cheeks, and said “Of course, darling. What are elders for?”   
The collective exhale was palpable, some people like Harwood and Bryen’s son—even Dyana—breathed audibly. Lord Stannis seemed to think that the niceties were over, and invited everyone to drink and socialize. Lord Harwood was the first to approach the Woman, and they greeted each other as though they were at least somewhat familiar. Though Howell stood in a group with Lords Eldon and Swann, he was careful not to stray too far from the object of this occasion.   
“And Jaxar, it is a pleasure to see you again,” the woman said.   
“The pleasure is mine, dear Lady,” Howell was sure he had bowed. “This is my wife Sessa and my son Kegan.”   
Kegan was nearly his son Ryden’s age, a boy of two and twelve. He bore a kind of checkered blond and black in his hair and the same gentle cheeks and sharp nose as his father. He had been Ryden’s playmate during the few tournaments and always acted respectfully around visiting company. Allyria always became elated whenever Ryden and Kegan were requested to visit Storm’s End to play with Edric. Sessa was very quiet outside of Felwood, however, Howell had heard many a drunken night where Jaxar would complain and praise her in the same breath. He mostly talked about the gold of her hair.   
Howell spotted Jon strutting towards the Woman and stepped in front of him just in time to not be run over. His brows were nearly invisible and the lines of his mouth ferocious as he grappled subtly with the other man.   
“Be. Very careful about your next move, brother,” Howell warned, using every ounce of his will not to sound threatening, “Her knowledge of you is still up in the air: she could restore your status as a lord—or she could take everything away from you.”   
“You think I’m scared of her,” Jon hissed, “you think I have anything left to lose?”   
“Yes, I think you have a great deal to lose. I know your children do.”   
Jon’s jaw remained tight and his fist clenched but they were no longer wrapped into the front of Howell’s cloak. He brushed past the man roughly and confronted the Woman this time with far more consciousness of personal space and his expression.   
…  
Arlyse was caught off guard by the redhead man who had appeared before her. She did take some satisfaction in the fact that he had to look up to her, even if it was only marginally. Maester Jurne had warned her about a Jon Connington and had said that he was the most likely candidate to cause trouble for her. She was also told that his appearance was thought to be a coin toss, yet here he stood. She was beginning to feel as though she wished he hadn’t; it would be bad for her reputation to get into a physical fight in front of so many spectators.   
“Jon Connington,” he introduced himself stiffly. “What was the name of the hole the King pulled you out of again?”   
Her hand tightened around the other, resisting the urge to bring it against the bridge of his nose. “Bear Island. In the North.”   
“And what exactly makes your precious King father think a Northern woman has the right of passage over a Stormland boy, hm?”   
“The proper age. A woman I may be, but I am well beyond the days of dreaming of shining armored knights and beautiful ladies.” Later, she would be grateful for the confrontation as it meant she would not be expected to smile as much afterward. “And I believe I had heard some in the King’s court talking about setting a new precedent for the Baratheon dynasty.”   
In truth, she had been snooping around and overheard an exchange between the Lords Varys, Eddard, and Baelish on her final day in King’s Landing. “What is your home called?”   
“Griffin’s Roost.” Dyana answered for Jon, as he seemed to be too busy grinding his teeth for control.   
“I will be sharing this information with everyone, but I feel you should hear it from me first. After today, we are planning a trip to visit every castle in the Stormlands, starting with Haystack and working our way around Shipbreaker’s bay. You…seem on edge about my presence, so I would like you to know that should you choose to bar me from your home, I will take no offense and seek no repercussions.”   
“How very noble of you,” he sneered.   
“Griffin’s Roost is your home, and I shall not force you or your family to feel insecure about your safety and privacy. That is a promise.”   
Jon hummed, taking a cup of wine from the nearby table and stirring its contents for a moment. “Let us see how long it takes for you to break such promises.”   
…  
When a feast had been served at high noon, Howell had begun to relax some. The Lady Baratheon was not demanding or overly pleasant, she carried herself high but did not stick her nose up at anyone no matter how rudely they occasionally acted towards her. He had seen her fists clench until her knuckles turned white, but she did not bark as he remembered a young Robert Baratheon had. Signs of a stubborn hothead were present when she thought no one was looking her way, a vulnerability in her eyes crept in if she thought she could mask it quickly enough. Maester Jurne and the Castellan were at ease, if they were at all worried by her, it would have shown by now. He breathed easier having seen her for himself, though the words they had shared were few. His eagerness to return home and discuss the night with his lady wife grew as he mounted his sable steed and headed off in the direction of the Dornish mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m worried Howell sounds lovely dovey about Arlyse. This is not my intention to strike up a romantic subplot with them, I just feel like he has the best authority to report about how she’s doing. In any case, I can’t want for Allyria and Arlyse to meet, though admittedly that’s going to be a LONG while.


	15. Howell Dondarrion II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner and important conversation for a nervous lord.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has been my break from finals studying.

“Father?” Ryden stood in the archway to Howell’s office. “The guests are arriving.”   
“Thank you, son. Tell your mother I will be with you in a moment.” Howell fiddled with the clasp of his doublet and smoothed his hand over the rich purples that danced across the black linen. Stepping into the hall, he admired the dozens of paintings and sculptures that decorated Blackhaven. Most depicted Dondarrion heroes and lords, and there at the end of the hall sat a picture of his uncle’s family. The Lord Dondarrion before him had left his son, Ser Beric, to take his rightful place as a marcher lord, but it seemed Howell’s cousin had had other plans. Looking upon sweet Allyria’s olive skin and cocked hip, he felt himself thanking Beric, wherever he was.   
“Late again,” she teased as he strutted toward the dining hall she stood before. “You will be late to your own demise, I am sure of it.”   
Howell gently cupped her soft, slender fingers and drew them to his lips. “As long as I perish before my love, I will die peacefully knowing you are well.”  
Allyria slipped her hands from his hold, trembling slightly. “Please, I do not wish to speak of such things. Tonight, we celebrate the Lady Baratheon.”   
He could not help the buzzing in his head and the irritated twitch that entered his eyes. He escorted his Lady back into the dining hall, where the guests had gathered. Amidst the lords, Howell had a special eye on the Silveraxe of Felwood. He had brought his grandson Kegan, and the boy had already abandoned his side to talk excitedly with Ryden at the edge of the crowd. Bryen Caron was the first guest he greeted, slapping the man on the back as Caron’s son watched.   
“And where—pray tell—is the Lady Caron,” Howell asked.   
“Myranne hates parties and crowds,” Bryen explain with a dopey grin and honest eyes hooded. “Even being in a room with her handmaiden makes her irate. She only seems to prefer mine and Bryce’s company.”   
A strange woman that Myranne, she had never liked anyone’s company. Howell remembered sparing with his cousins at a tourney and being hit in the head by a book. She had thrown it from a terrace to give her brother the upper hand. Now her father Lord Peasbury had a hollow look in his one eye, he must have been hoping to see her.   
Howell made his rounds meeting with Lord Grandison and his wife and twin sons, Lord Peasbury and his son Halder, but the man stopped when he came to Lord Arstan Selmy. Arstan allowed his hair to brush his shoulders and his smile was kept polite, if slightly nervous. Howell caught him by the elbow to separate him from his sister Ranoma as she and Allyria spoke of Dorne. The two men slipped into a hall away from prying eyes.   
“How did it go?” Arstan shifted on his feet, eager to listen.   
“She’s…” Howell rubbed his neck and came away with sweat. “It’s complicated.”   
“How complicated is a yes or no,” Arstan huffed. “You’ve good judge of character, just… answer with your instincts.”   
“I think she has a lot to learn, but… she hasn’t alienated herself quite yet.”   
Arstan nodded. “Alright…that’s a good start, we can work with that.”   
“It should have been you,” Howell commented. Meeting the Lady Baratheon was Arstan’s idea after all. “You always know what to do, what to say. Jon respects you.”   
Arstan put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Jon respects you, too. He’s just stubborn as an ass. What did she say to you?”   
Howell refused to answer, going so far as to avert his eyes even. Arstan’s gentle eyes hardened. “You didn’t talk to her. Not even a hello?”   
“What could I say? What could I possibly say to give me the power to see more than what she wants me to see?”   
Before Arstan could answer, Allyria appeared in the hall and dragged Howell back into the room. Dinner was ready, and the guests seated strategically along the roundtable. His brows furrowed, and he glanced between Arstan and Harwood. He stuffed his mouth with salted pork and blood oranges while the lords shared hunting stories. Everyone laughed as Harwood told a story about Kegan’s fright from an angry pig on a farm. The embarrassed boy slunk into his seat and glared at Ryden’s smothered snickering. The tension in his shoulders began to relax, and he was soothed further when he felt Allyria’s leg brushing his calf. He looked at her and took the offered slice of fish from her plate. Their hands rested on the table together for the rest of the night. When the moonlight overtook the candles and the servants skirted about relighting them, Allyria had moved the group into the prepared resting room and began hosting games. During Winking Assassin, Howell made his way to the man he had kept his eye on for the entire night.   
“Lord Fell,” Howell bowed lightly.   
“Howell,” the SIlverax smiled and shook his hand. “It seems you and I are the only lords here to have met our Lady of the Stormlands.”   
“Yes,” Howell fidgeted his hand at his side, “I have been meaning to ask you about that.”   
Harwood chuckled. “So, I could tell.”   
Howell felt a tug on his sleeve and looked to see Ryden, but before the boy could speak, Lord Grandison shouted and collapsed dramatically to his knees. The whole room clapped and cheered at his performance, and Allyria gave him a red scarf to wear for the rest of the game. Hoster Peasbury and Ranoma Selmy quickly followed him, and from then on the company was on careful watch. Howell returned his attention to Ryden, who wanted to collect the King’s chess set from his room. Howell gave his permission.   
“What do you think of her?” Howell’s feet shifted beneath him.   
“I rode with her from the Kingswoods to Storm’s End. I found her most interesting.”   
“Forgive me, Harwood, but ‘interesting’ is a terrible descriptor.”  
“I know,” Harwood chuckled, “I just like to watch you flounder. Lady Arlyse keeps her cards close, but her curiosity betrays her. She wants to help us.”   
“What do you mean? How could you tell?” Howell’s eyes widened and his back became straight as an arrow.   
“She wanted to know about my family and my land. She wanted to know what we valued and what lords had been feuding for generations. I saw it in the way she drank her ale, with all of the grace and responsibility of a good man.”   
“And you think she has our prosperity at heart.”   
“That, or she is an excellent actress. In which case,” Harwood winked from over the rim of his horn, “the land will bleed.”   
…  
Retired in bed, Howell lay with Allyria curled into his side and stroking the light trail of hair across his stomach. His confidence in the fate of the Stormlands walked the line between the raging sea and the steadfast beach. He worried the gentle black curls of his wife’s hair and wished she shared a hint of his concern.   
“Remind me how Ryden bruised on his nose again?”   
Howell was startled from deep contemplation. “I believe he was standing too close to Lord Grandison while he was telling a tourney story.”   
The poor boy had been knocked to the ground and was quickly surrounded by the ladies to pet his hair and check his injuries. Grandison had apologized sheepishly, but Ryden had pulled himself from the floor and laughed it off. A swell of pride bloomed when he had watched his son diffuse the tension he had created with a few jokes.   
“I think she will do amazing things,” Allyria whispered half asleep.   
“Who?”  
“Lady Baratheon.”   
“You know nothing about her. Haven’t even met her,” Howell objected.   
“And? She is a Baratheon. You say she swings a sword?”   
“…Harwood did mention a sword, yes.”   
“And she wore a dress to greet the lords. A warrior and a lady.” Allyria settled closer to Howell. “She will be a great Lady, with or without your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after the 15th I will be free from college.


	16. Arlyse Baratheon III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treason of the highest summit. The castle is stormed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun writing action, holy cannoli. Sorry it’s been so long, I have a thousand and one excuses but here, have this prematurely ended (as far as the plan goes) chapter as reparations.

Steady rain pattered against the smooth stones and glass panes of Storm’s End, making the castle’s grounds slick and cold. Arlyse had spent the sevenday wandered the halls and familiarizing herself with the layout. Now she sat in her bedchambers sharpening the bastard sword. Her fingers had begun to stiffen around the steel blade, the fire having finally died. Fearing the bite of the blade in her numb hands, she set off with the whetstone to the one place she knew a fire always burned.  
The library was on the floor just above the entrance to the Keep, with carved oak stags as bookend pieces on the few shelves that were not completely full, she had counted only a mere three dozen that required them to keep the texts upright. In the most comfortable velvet seat sat Edric who had stopped running away at the sight of her as early as yesterday. He sat with a stack of books at the clawed foot of the chair, his own feet over one of the armrests. Maester Jurne looked displeased by his posture, but continued to scrawl on the stack of parchments spread out on his desk. What little light poured in from the narrow, tall windows of the second floor shelves was overpowered by the dancing red and the crackle of wood and coal. While the Maester read by the white candle at his side, Edric had positioned himself so that the fire would light the words.  
“What is that you’re reading?” Arlyse stopped by the velvet chair.  
Edric peered over the lip of the book and frowned. “The Last Storm King.”  
“Storm King?” Edric did not elaborate. “The one that built Storm’s End?”  
“No,” the boy scoffed, “he wasn’t the last Storm King. Argalic the Arrogant was.”  
“How awful a King must one be to be the last,” Arlyse said wistfully. She sat in the opposite chair, knowing Edric would defend his hero.  
“Stupid! Argalic was a brave warrior, he fought the Hand of King Aegon the Conqueror in single combat.”  
“Sounds very arrogant to me.”  
“He was not!”  
“So, he won the battle and chose to not be King anymore?”  
“Well—no,” he stuttered. “He lost and Orys took his daughter Queen Argella as his wife.”  
She needn’t wait long to hear more, Edric had even set the book aside to free his hands for gestures.  
“She wasn’t really Queen though. She tried to make herself a Storm Queen and told Rhaenys Targaryen and her dragon that House Durrandon would fight to the last man before they would be conquered like the rest of the world.”  
“What happened then?”  
“Her own men betrayed her,” he said, his small hands balling into fists. “They brought her to Lord Orys bound and naked, but he chose to court her like a proper lady, and when he became the Lord of Storm’s End he adopted her house’s sigil and words to honor her father.”  
That was something she had never heard. “The words of House Baratheon were once house Durrandons?”  
“That’s what I said,” the boy crossed his arms and leaned back with a grin.  
The woman pulled the short table between her legs. Unsheathing the sword made Edric pale until he saw the whetstone. “Where did you get that?”  
“A gift from the Princess.”  
“Princesses,” Edric scoffed, “don’t see what’s so great about them. Do know my Father sends me letters and gifts every Name day?”  
“Would you like to show me your favorite?” Edric was gone in an instant, his books left behind and the sound of a sword scraping against smooth stone followed him out. Maester Jurne kept to his scribblings but took a moment to set aside a quill and parchment for Arlyse. He had been teaching her to read and write as other Ladies do. Replicating the chicken scratch was easy, but recognizing where one word ended and another began was infuriating some days. Her fingers ached from the memory of writing and rewriting her own name over and over and over again.  
The schink of stone against metal mixed into the crackling wood fire and the torrents of rainfall beginning to collide more directly with the glass panes due to the rising wind. Only when she stopped to examine the quality of the edge did the Maester speak.  
“He’s growing fond of you, you know,” he said.  
“Only by virtue of tolerance,” Arlyse replied, sharpening the other edge of the sword.  
“He used to be afraid of you,” he continued, setting his quill aside again and crossing his fingers. “He feared you would dispose of him as a threat to your lordship.”  
The sound of scrapping halted a moment, and when it began again it was slower, more deliberate. “I will admit the thought crossed my mind in Bronzegate. Should he choose to openly revolt against me, half of the Stormlands would raise their swords in arms to support him. But Edric is just a boy and an invaluable ally. And perhaps, someday—if he allows—we may well become brother and sister in respect as well as blood.”  
“I think that is perhaps the most optimistic thing I have ever heard you say that wasn’t in relation to supper,” Maester Jurne chuckled warmly, and Arlyse joined in. Light footsteps echoed through the hall and Edric burst through the door carrying something black and heavy. “Oh dear…”  
Maester Jurne placed his head into his hands as Edric grasped the half sized yet dangerous weapon by its handle in triumph, puffing his chest and smiling with the mania of an overexcited tourney knight.  
“What in the Seven Kingdoms…”  
“It’s a war hammer!”  
“Yes, I can see that.” Arlyse braced her feet against the rug, ready to take it from him should he become too eager in his excitement and begin swinging the damned thing. So impractical, she thought, to give someone so small a dangerous weapon.  
“Father wrote me that it was modeled after his own,” Edric continued, weighing the thing in his hands even as his twig like arms began to tremble. “The very same that he smashed the head of Prince Rhaegar with.”  
“Careful how you speak, boy,” Maester Jurne warned, “the dead do not like to be mocked.”  
Edric sneered but did not retort or apologize. He raised it over his head in a show of strength but quickly dropped them at the sheer weight of the head. The face was spiked like a meat mincer, a stag head elegantly molted into the sides and painted in with gold. He set it down as gently as he could manage and shook the weakness from his limbs, still beaming like a dog with a stick.  
“I don’t suppose you’ve had much practice with it,” Arlyse commented, watching his face fall a bit.  
“No,” he looked cross, “Master Cortnay says it’s not as good as a sword.”  
Arlyse pocketed the whetstone and patted Edric shoulder, turning him towards the door and leaning closer to his oversized ear. “Perhaps, when the Master is away on duty, you and I can test some truth of that.”  
Suddenly, his face brightened, but the Maester cleared his throat. “I will pretend I did not hear such foolishness if you practice your letters tonight, my Lady.”  
The Lady of Storm’s End cleared the desk of her exercise parchments and departed back to her room, where another warm fire was lit and Senma was wrapped in thick furs on the floor before the hearth. Along the way, she roughly brushed shoulders with a guard, who glanced her way with a strange malice in his eyes. She slipped her trousers off on the edge of her bedpost and shooed the handmaiden away when she tried to take them.  
…  
She was woken by the sound of silence. Eerie though it was, it could not have been the thing drawing her from her slumber. Arlyse listened, staying as still as possible beneath her blankets. Rain pattered against the window pane, a dull mimic of the downpour that had raged during the day. The fire had died, the smell of smoldering embers lacked the cacophonous cracking of earlier. Behind thick oak, the sound of whispering. She slipped from her bed and slunk to the door, pressing her body close to the wall. While she could not distinguish the words that poured from the lips, there were no doubt at least five voices shushing each other with anticipation. Her spine tingled with cold, and she quickly but silently returned to the bed to retrieve her trousers and sword, leaving her short chemise untucked into the waist. The handle of the door rattled behind the closed bar, and the men in the hall began to curse under their breaths, growing impatient.  
Senma was nowhere to be found, so Arlyse exited the only way she could: through the window. The ledge was slick with rain and razor thin, making the climb to the next window a dangerous shuffle. She prayed to the stone for the sturdiness that allowed it to remain unyielding to the centuries of harsh ocean torments.  
Arlyse could not breathe until she had slipped into the window of the next room, passing by the second window of her room and wishing she had exited on that side instead. She had taken a second to peer inside, spotting a hearty dozen men with their swords drawn overturning her furniture in frustration. The men were her own guards, they wore the brass plates of armor she had seen wandering the halls in yellow cloaks. In the darkness, she could not tell the exact color they wore now but knew they did not belong to her King father.  
Sneaking through the hall, flattening against the wall and keeping as close to the shadows as she could, Arlyse managed to find her way to the Maester’s chambers.  
To her horror, two men were already there, beating down the door and shouting. She pulled the bastard sword from its scabbard and approached, cutting the first down as the other spotted her. A spray of blood sprung from the man’s chest, his armor giving way as the clasp was struck. The other man, now alert, swung his sword in a broad stroke, hoping to catch her small body and cleave it in half, but the woman, unburdened by heavy armor, ducked and spun gracefully around him. She jammed her weapon into his belly from bellow just past the breastplate and allowed the blade to slice deep into the man until it crawled to a stop near the base of his neck. In the whites of his eyes, she saw his soul leave him, and he toppled backward, taking her with him. Her adrenaline did not permit her to release the embedded sword, so the woman, unfortunately, followed him as he tumbled back and down a flight of stone steps. The blood had slickened enough to release her, and she caught herself after a head over heels tumble and halted to catch her breath. Her skull ached when it had caught a corner, but the sound of approaching men startled her from her self pity. She climbed hand over hand to the upper floor to find Maester Jurne helping her to her feet, glancing around with wild eyes. He began to speak, but Arlyse silenced him with a short shush and dragged him down the stairs.  
“We need to get to Edric,” Maester Jurne urged. Arlyse bent over the dead man and gripped the hilt of the sword, and with a foot on his chest, pulled agonizingly slow on the thing, her stomach churning at the squelch of liquid and ripping flesh. The sword was half freed, but the men were drawing closer. “Lady Arlyse, please.”  
Her blood soaked hands slipped, and she stumbled. Without a word, she pilfered the fallen traitor’s sword and turned to find the Maester gone. She feared for a moment that she had been abandoned, but soon he returned, and the sound of clinking rings followed as he handed her a chainmail shirt.  
The pair continued through the Keep, the stealth of their movement diminished by the soft clinking of the mail. They only encountered a few straggles of guards, some rifling through the pockets of their fallen opponents. The dead wore guard armor, the looters boiled black leather like men of the Night’s Watch. Their cloaks bore the sigil of a quartered banner. A hanged man on a blue field and a flighty crow in a green one, the Maester identified them as the sigils of houses Trant and Morrigen. Blood heated in her veins, and Arlyse felt that heat rise to her face as she ground her teeth together.  
They reached Edric’s chamber to find the Castellan Penrose in combat. Outnumbered, he seemed to be struggling, being beaten back towards the door as the men relentlessly swung their swords in tandem. Arlyse whistled, gaining both of their eyes before bouncing the hilt of her sword into the eye hole of the helmeted left. He screamed and clutched at his face as the other reared to swing, but he was swiftly kicked aside by the Castellan. Maester Jurne slipped between them and pounded on the door, calling just over the rasp of swords to the boy inside.  
“My Lady!” Castellan Penrose tossed a shield her way, and she snatched it from the air just in time to drop it onto the back of the downed, eyeless traitor. His screams became gasps for air that turned to gurgling as she drove the tip of her blade into his throat. His limbs loosened while Cortnay drove a mounted spear through the other’s leg. Blood gushed from the wound and he toppled to the floor, clutching at it until he grew weak. The two slipped into the chamber to find the Maester wrapped around the shaking boy, just as red faced and teary eyed as he had been the day Arlyse had arrived.  
“What’s happening,” he hiccupped, clinging to the rough cloth of the Maester’s clothes like a babe to his mother.  
“A coup,” Cortnay spat. “My own men, the new ones, they turned their cloaks like rabid dogs!”  
“We need to take control,” the Maester urged.  
“Penrose,” Arlyse grasped him by his uninjured arm to watch the door for more intruders, “who do we know can be trusted?”  
He thought a moment, gathering the boy and the Maester and ushering them out into the hall before taking off towards some destination. “Markus Mertyns, Tarner Peasbury, Captain Erac Grandison. I saw the cloaks of the traitors, damn Trants! Leather, crows, and gallows are what you need to be looking out for.”  
Just as they rounded another corner, they came face to face with the Captain of the guard himself, his sword drawn in defense of four men, two visibly injured. He lowered his sword when he recognized them, and his face grew harder when he spotted Arlyse. “My lady, we need to get you and young Edric somewhere safe.”  
“We’ll be safe when these traitors are dead,” she retorted. “Send Maester Jurne and Edric out while we handle the invasion.”  
Erac stood, stunned, but shook the shock off and order his men to take them back to the stables. The uninjured of the guards, Markus Mertyns, guided the group through a passage the Captain opened in the wall, much to the awe of the others. Now down to three, the Lady, the Castellan, and the Captain moved through the halls towards the sounds of men. Erac knelt a moment beside a dying young man in a corridor full of bodies, grasping his hand until his eyes became lifeless. He was only Jon’s age, full of fear and regret and cuts. Arlyse set a gentle hand on the solemn man’s shoulder when she heard footsteps moving closer to them. They pressed against the walls and waited with bated breath. The offenders were laughing and jesting as if there were not corpses around their feet, and the woman’s vision begsn to cloud with a red vignette. She gripped the borrowed sword tighter and pressed her lips into a thin line.  
As soon as a man stepped into her view, the woman screeched with a mania and swung the shield until it crashed into the uncovered head of her enemy. Two men stood stunned, and Cortnay and Erac struck them down in their stunned state. The other three traitors drew their weapons, one unarmed but fairly large man shoved Erac to the floor, knocking his sword from him. While Cortnay danced with the man on the left, Arlyse clashed swords with the middle man. They matched each other blow for blow, and the woman watched as Erac wrestled with the heavy, armored traitor. The moment of distraction proved almost deadly as the dueling man’s sword, sliced through the mail at her side and cut deep across her flesh. She slapped the blade away, raising her arm so as not to cause herself more injury and connecting the base of the shield with the man’s barred throat. He choked, collapsing to the floor as the splintering wood left a few large chips in his neck when a hand wrapped around Arlyse’s ankle. She crashed to the ground, quickly disarming herself as the first man clambered up her body and reach for her throat. Despite the recent blow to the head, his fingers closed tightly around her neck and seized, stopping any air from entering or exiting her body. One of her hands flew to her neck, prying at his unusually strong grip, but the other reached for the dagger in her flailing boot.  
As she yanked it free, Erac and the mountainous man came crashing down on top of them, the combined weight of three men pressing on her chest just as strangling as the gloved fingers. Erac had the upper hand, slamming his fist hard into the skull of his opponent, shocked to see the lady drive a dagger into his ear with sapping strength. His hand joined her, driving it deeper as the mountain howled. Her vision blurred, but she still watched horrified as Erac raised the dagger and drove it into the first man’s head, pressing his face into her collarbone.  
The weight lifted from her chest man after man until she gulped the stolen air. Hands fumbled at her elbows and dragged her to her feet, Cortnay joining Erac as they set their Lady right. Cortnay turned her arm to see a steady stream of blood trick from a cut on the back of her shoulder, watching her clutch at the fresh cut lower on her side. The unarmed reclaimed their weapons, Cortnay and Erac retrieving shields for themselves from the strewn pile and continuing oh their warpath.  
Tired and roughed up, the trio staggered through more halls until they reached a stairwell full of fighting men. Erac threw himself into the fight, slashing at the leather clad traitors and freeing his defending guardsmen. They swept their way down the stairs having the higher ground advantage, cutting through bone and flesh where they could and pushing where they couldn’t. By the time the swords stopped, six men stood ready to join the Captain. Nine became eleven, and as dawn crept over the horizon of Shipbreaker’s bay, the surviving or surrendering traitors had been corralled into the entrance hall.  
Every man clutched at their wounds, the traitors bound with ropes behind their backs or forced to hold their heads. Arlyse’s gaze swept over them like a wash of fire that not even the worst storm could put out. She had glimpsed fire red hair among the dead, so many servants brutalized unnecessarily for the sake of overthrowing the outsider from the North. She let the searing burn of her lacerated flank fuel that fire further, walking up and down the line of harrowed men she had seen sparing in the castle grounds and laughing over a meal just days before the fight. Her eyes landed on two such men whom she did not recognize, though there were a few others, and stopped beside them.  
Men from Bronzegate and Felwood to Grand View loitered inside and out of the castle having arrived with the sun to find the fighting mostly done with. Their noses wrinkled at the smell of stale copper in the air, and some batted away tears as they collected the dead for burial. Jaxar had taken a position just without arms reach of her and had not left it since, his father the SIlveraxe kept his eyes carefully trained on her, making her hair stand on end.  
“Do you recognize these men?” Arlyse drew Jaxar closer and he need not kneel to see one man’s defiant face at all.  
“This is the lord James Trant of Gallowsgrey,” he said, bewildered and angry, “and this man here is Lord Lester Morrigen of Crow’s Nest.”  
The Morrigen man was older, his head bowed as he pressed his chin to his chest. He did not stir at his name, nor the swift kick to his knee that she gave him. There lay no remorse or contrition in his counterpart, a man with fire in his beard and blood in his eye from the open, stinking wound in his hairline. Lord Trant’s skull split around bloodied bone from his temple to his ear. In his eyes, a craze like a sickened animal or a wildling blazed. His lips trembled at the effort to peel away from his blackened teeth as he smiled.  
Before something could happen, Maester Jurne gently grasped Arlyse by her uninjured arm and escorted her to the only side of the room that did not have men living or deceased. “I am afraid I have news.”  
“Edric,” she interrupted.  
“He is well, though deeply shaken,” the Maester wrung his hands. “The King has summoned you back to King’s Landing by tomorrow night. A tournament in honor of Prince Joffery’s Name day.”  
“I don’t have time to play at games, Maester. People have been slaughtered, by men who’ve sworn to protect them—if I leave now, who is to say Storm’s End will be mine when I return.”  
“To not attend would be a grave insult to the Prince,” he replied as calmly as possible. “The crown cares not for skirmishes such as these.”  
Her hand grazed roughly over her creased brow and returned to the tight, reddening cloth over her most mortal wound. Fingers itched and eyes rolled back into her head, Arlyse looked over the dozen or so captures.  
Maester Jurne followed her eyes. “What will you do with them?”  
“What do Lords usually do with traitors?”  
“My Lady,” he warned, “you cannot be rash or careless today. What you do will impact the future of your rule in the Stormlands.”  
She nodded slowly. “I know.”  
Stiffly, still boiling over with rage and heartache, Arlyse returned to the line of captures with an air that drew the attention of every man present. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the Castellan holding Edric by the hand.  
“Lord Morrigen. Lord Trant.” The accused rose their heads, and she motioned for her men. “Throw the rest in the dungeons for now. I want these two brought to the steps of the Keep.”  
A moment of silence was ended when Captain Erac grasped the old Morrigen man by his collar and hauled him to his feet. Other guards moved to relocate the captures while the visiting lords and their bannermen moved to the foot of the stairs ahead of the Captain and Lord Fell. Grey clouds hung overhead as the crowd gathered to witness. Maester Jurne and Jaxar tailed close behind Arlyse exchanging fearful glances.  
“We hang traitors south of the Neck, “Jaxar urged, “there are no gallows for miles and no trees in the castle grounds.”  
“This may be true, but I am no Southern lord,” Arlyse declared.  
Throbbing, her wound stretched taut like a canvas, Arlyse disappeared from the crowd and returned to the staircase beneath the Maester’s room. She lurched the bastard sword from the carcass she buried it in and limped back to the scene. Men gathered in an arching ring, Captain Erac and the Castellan stood beside the accused at the bottom of the stone steps. As the grass brushed her boots, Arlyse set her arms to her sides and breathed deeply.  
“If my first act as the Lady of Storm’s End must be a death sentence,” she cried over the distant crashing waves in the bay, “then so be it. You may speak your last words in turn, but choose wisely, for I have lost my patience.”  
At the mention of words, the crazed Lord Trant began a tirade. “You stupid whore, did you truly believe you would be welcomed with open arms? Ugly wildling bitch, house Baratheon be damned! The time of stags is at an end, brothers, and hanged men will rise from its ashes to claim the Westeros! Have men no honor as to follow a bear’s whore into battle, to fight for a woman who would see their children slaughtered like cattle and their wives butchered and raped in the name of Old Gods?!”  
His hysterical thrashing was met with a swift punch from Erac, and in a daze, Trant managed silence. Arlyse sauntered up to the second man, hunched as he had been when she first saw him.  
“Your turn.” She prompted. “I hope your words carry far more meaning and brevity to them.”  
She was taken aback when the man lay his sad eyes upon her figure. His eyes pleading, but his words were not for himself.  
“Do not impose your wrath for the father as for the son,” he whispered and bowed his head again. When no one chose to speak again, Arlyse felt a hand at her shoulder.  
“My Lady,” Lord Fell whispered, “beheading is such messy business. Here, give me the sword.”  
She patted his hand and gently brushed it from her person. The thought of direwolves crossed her mind. “The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.”  
The cuts were clean, as she rose the weapon she felt the hands of the slaughtered guide her. Morrigen’s frail neck cut like myrish lace, and his body landed without so much as a sound. Trant had attempted to stand, but the bastard and the sword did not yield, and his face laid upright, eyes wide and jaw undone from his head. As the yellowed grass soaked the torrents of red, a chorus rattled through the air. Whispers of Widow Maker.  
…  
The smell of burnt flesh made her stomach churn more than anything else before it, even the pain in her side. No man had spoken since the execution, the Fells, Bucklers, Grandisons, and vassals had departed soon after. Maester Jurne had his hands full, teaching the lightly injured how to treat others as he worked everyone over, starting with the most severe. Cauterizing, he had called it when he had stuck the red hot iron to her, hurt like a thousand swords. Arlyse had gone limp in the arms of Erac and Jaxar when the iron had been taken away. Screams from more cauterizing echoed every so often through the stonework, and the time was well after high noon when Arlyse retired to her room. Sweat and blood caked her clothes to her flesh, and as she drew her own bath she was quietly reminded that Senma had been among the dead that morning.  
Regret sullied up her bare feet to her chest as she climbed into the freezing cold water, and the copper taste in her mouth was far more bitter than the blood. The usually soothing water felt heavy now, the weight of the misfortune pressing on her chest like the mail she did not shed. She pulled with feeble hands at the leather trousers, slipping out easier beneath the water, finally able to disrobe without tearing open her wounds. Later Maester Jurne would scold her for ruining her bandages, but for now, her head lolled over the lip of the tub and she wept her way into a dreamless rest.  
…  
Dinner was served in the study that night, the kitchens and dining room still caked in peasant blood. Salted pork, yesterday’s bread, and honeyed ale filled everyone’s hollow bellies. Erac Grandison had been invited to dine with the Lady and the Castellan, but he had declined in favor of eating in the bailey with his men. Edric’s face was traced in fresh tears and speckles of mud he had gathered from being outside. He pulled his food apart, wiping at his snotty nose with the back of his hand and flinching when touched. Maester Jurne had pushed the meat as far from his person as he could and washed the bread with cheese and drink. They sat in a silence both comforting and frightening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I split this into two parts because I had way more content than I expected so the next chapter will be a bit more of the same. If you were curious as to where I’ve been: I’m participating in the NaNoWriMo camp this year. I hit a wall and this was a good exercise to take my mind off the project for a while.


	17. Storm's End II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lady has pressing matters to deal with in the wake of the execution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEVER GONNA GIVE YOU UP. I maaay let you down for a while as far as quality goes, but I’ll take a stab at revising previous works once chapter 20 has been posted.

The Lady slumped in her chair, and the stiffness of the leather doublet she wore was the only thing keeping her head from the table. Edric could see how worn she was, and he silently thanked the merciful Mother that her black hair shadowed her face. When he had watched her slice through the necks of the old Lords, suddenly he had felt like he had the first day she had come to his home. The gentle, if irksome woman who had promised to teach him to fight like his King father was once again the stranger who had come to kill him and claim his birthright. When she had ordered him to eat, he had slipped a ripped chunk of bread into his mouth, afraid the meat would finally unsettle his stomach for a second time, and had been chewing on it ever since. The She-Bear did not watch him, nor did she acknowledge him further, and that sent relief over his shoulders.   
“My Lady,” Maester Jurne said tentatively. Edric wondered if he was afraid of her as well. “I know how haggard you must be, but we must discuss tomorrow’s tournament and what to do with the traitors.”  
She was eerily silent, Edric thought she might actually have fallen asleep until she spoke at last. “What more is there to do?”   
Maester Jurne looked to Cortnay for help, and the man scowled back.   
“You have executed two of your vassals, Arlyse,” he continued urgently, “and a beheading no less! This is cause for great concern.”   
“And?” The She-Bear sounded bored, more lumbering furry beast than woman. “What’s done is done. The other lords will have to learn to live with it.”  
The Maester sighed frustratedly and stuffed his face back into his hands, but Cortnay’s chair creaked as he leaned over the table onto his elbows.   
“And what of the new lords of their houses? Both of those men had sons, I know them well enough. Grance and Rickard will no doubt have become grave enemies of yours by now.”   
“Fuck them,” she hissed under her breath. “What then? What do you expect me to do now?!”   
The men had no answers. Edric felt black cover vignette his vision and he felt a desperate need to be as far from the She-Bear as possible. His stomach tightened and bile burned in his throat, he couldn’t hold back any longer. He slumped to the side and vomited onto the floor, the sound of scraping and falling chairs echoed throughout the room. He felt gentle hands at his back, his eyes were screwed shut from the violence of the spill and the salty tears on his tongue. The hands guided him to step away from the mess, and the woman grunted roughly as she knelt to cradle his cheeks.   
“Are you alright?” Her voice was kind like it had been the first time. Edric nodded despite the quiver that had overtaken his lip. “You should return to bed. Go on.”  
She patted his hair, and the rough calluses that caught his neck reminded him of the Maester’s. The man led the boy back to his bedchamber and tucked him in, mindful of the books and toys strewn about. He would not sleep much that night, but it was the only thing anyone could think to do for him.   
…  
The Bastard sat there looking so much like Edric and like Renly. Cortnay had grown up with the Baratheon brothers. Storm’s End was his second home, like the Vale to Robert or the King’s court to Renly, Dragonstone to Stannis. In his youth, the King had been like fire. Wild, in temper and desire, he frequently lost his sense of balance to reward, insult, and drink. Even as he slept, he dreamt of the cacophonous moans of naked whores and the gory remnants of the Targaryen dynasty with a sickening smile. If Robert was fire, then Stannis was ice. He had learned to be two steps ahead of his opponents before he could hold a sword, and his stoicism leant to the image of the frozen Wall on the northern border. The calculated fury in her eyes as she had swung her sword coupled with the way she regarded blood without flinching reminded the Castellan of the King in a way that sent a cold shiver through his back.   
Tonight she had been brash, murderous even. He had wanted to see the traitors swing from the gallows: but this? This was the ice in her northern heart, the blood of the First Men and of Wildlings breaking a peace in the Stormlands that had lasted centuries. Her eyes were cast down at the table, the remorse gave him hope of a better future, but the caked blood in her hair and the clenching of her jaw gave him cause for doubt. Perhaps, he thought, she could be swayed to return to her home and give Edric his due. But alas, the stags were stubborn, and no Baratheon would ever be moved to give up their power no matter the cost.   
“Tell me, Castellan,” she interrupted his thoughts, stuffing bread topped with pork into her cheek to chew, “how is it that two houses managed to infiltrate their capital and stage a coup so quickly?”   
Cortnay bristled, the hairs on his neck stood on end and his spade beard twitched with exasperation.   
“Captain Erac and I thought it would be best to increase the rank of the guards for your protection, my Lady,” he hissed.   
“And the fact that the new guard seemed to come only from these two houses did not strike you as odd?”   
“The guards we recruited were from House Morrigen only,” he said. “Any Trant men you saw tonight were not of the guard.”   
“What about House Morrigen made you trust them so much?”  
“During all of these years, with Lord Renly in the court, Morrigen has been one of the few houses not determined to gossip openly about the slip of power in Storm’s End.”  
“But Trant is,” she retorted, “and these houses have been bound by marriage, James Trant had proven time and time again that he cannot be trusted, and yet somehow you still cannot see your own failings!”   
Cortnay stood from his chair and knocked it down to the floor, and Arlyse followed closely behind but faltered as her wounds pulled. She leaned a hand on the table and caught her breath, sweat streaking down her nose from the effort to stand.   
“The most important question it seems that no one is asking,” she huffed, “is why— if they had planned to remove me from my seat— did they not bring their sons? Tell me about Grance and Rickard. Please.”   
Cortnay shuffled, then deliberately moved around the table to help her sit again, taking up residence in Maester Jurne’s abandoned chair.   
“Grance is a fool,” he began, piecing through vague memories and half forgotten meetings. “Rickard is only just a young man, younger than even you.”  
Arlyse poured herself a goblet of red wine and waited for him to continue.   
“I will never claim that a man should be punished for the sins of his father, but something must be done about those boys. They’re lords now thanks to you, and bastards as well. If left to their own devices, they will be spurred to avenge their deaths. Grance is a hothead, but Rickard might listen if you speak with him. His house has more bannermen, more land, and more power anyway.”   
“What are you suggesting?”  
“Beheading isn’t going to be enough, and an apology will make you look weak.” She downed her cup and took some comfort in the gentle buzz that filled her chest and head. “You need something to deter any retaliation. A display of control that won’t alienate you too much.”  
“Any chance you know a way back into southern good graces?”   
“You dug your grave when you cut off those men’s heads.” At his retort, Arlyse shrugged and drank more. She knew he was right.   
“Alright,” she tried, “need to keep it peaceful. Lord Stark always met with his adversaries and he’s always come away with the upper hand.”   
Cortnay raised his brow and brushed his hand over his spade beard, not looking at all pleased. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure what that expression would look like on his face anyways. “If you’re thinking about meeting up and talking to them, I can tell you it’s a terrible idea.”   
“Well if you have a better idea, I’m all ears,” the woman snapped. “Besides, I have a tournament I need to attend.”  
…  
The Castellan was furious. Arlyse ignored him like a petulant child and finished securing the saddle of her horse, grinding her teeth over the soreness in her arms and her stomach. Captain Erac stood aside, torn between the two and glancing back and forth awkwardly.   
“The Maester is in the ravenry with a message to the King, I only have a day to do this, so join me or stay out of my way,” she finally said, equally cross. She stormed past Erac, who quickly sidestepped out of her way to avoid being barreled over.   
“My lady,” he started, “please, reconsider our offer. We only want to protect you—”   
“You stubborn, hotheaded wildling bastard” Cortnay shouted. “you can’t go to Crow’s Nest alone, you’re putting your neck in the very noose you refused!”   
“Oh, shut it!” She roughly pulled the reigns, saunter alongside her nameless horse. She had had enough of the bickering. Bringing a convoy of guards would not only look aggressive to the grieving families, but it would also leave Storm’s End more defenseless than it had already become. They had been fighting since the dawn broke, and the thick cloud cover was the only thing revealing her stiff neck and painful headache. Young Edric sat with a greying and old dragon stuffed with hey. He cradled it tightly and had been quietly following everyone around. Arlyse made a note to ask him about it when she came back. If you come back. “Tell the Maester I’ll be waiting for him.”   
She dismissed Cortnay, who stormed off towards the training fields, and Edric ambled towards the ravenry. Minutes later, Arlyse discovered her Captain of the Guard had diligently followed her to the outer gates. Leather bound hands strapped a small wagon to the gray and white courser and the dappled brown palfrey. He avoided her eyes, standing silently aside when he had finished as if he wanted to say something.   
She jerked her elbow into his breastplate to gain his attention. “No worries. If I die, Edric will be the new Lord.”   
“I know you’re trying to make light, but I do worry.” She looked into his eyes and saw a bitter cold she did not expect. Somehow, the woman knew it was for the dead they had carefully wrapped into the wagon, and not for her. “You may never make it to Crow’s Nest if Jon catches you.”   
Ah, she thought, there was another problem. To ride to Crow’s Nest, she would have to journey past Griffin’s Roost where they were by now mourning the loss of Semna and a few Connington guards.   
“Let’s hope his family is too sorrowful to want vengeance so soon.” She whispered bitterly. The Maester arrived in time to rescue the two from more awkward conversation, and they set off leaving the blond man alone outside the castle wall.   
The dwelling of house Morrigen seemed further away the closer they became. Arriving at Griffin’s Roost was just as horrible as she had expected it to be. The tears of the women and the cries of Semna’s family tore Arlyse’s heart until she reconsidered her peaceful deposition. Jon Connington did not acknowledge or speak to the Lady or the Maester, only watched solemnly as his bannermen unhooked the horses from the wagon and hauling the bodies inside the castle grounds. A woman with hair more like a Tully than a Connington grasped Arlyse by her hands and thanked her for returning her niece’s body home. She offered them food and rest, whispering so that her husband could not hear, but Arlyse declined and stated that she had made them suffer enough.   
They quickly mounted the newly freed and already saddled horses before continuing their travel southward. Without the wagon, Maester Jurne and Arlyse set the pace to a light gallop, hoping to reach Crow’s Nest by nightfall. Surely enough, the two met with guards in dark turquoise tunics and boiled leather. Her back stiffened and the woman dismounted the white faced horse, the Maester followed shortly.   
“Are you the Lady Baratheon?” Arlyse looked to the Maester, but assumed he had simply sent them a raven on the dawn. She nodded once, and the men reluctantly opened the gates. They found the hall filled with men and women, armed guards stood at attention along a raised ledge. At the center, a woman clung to a boy around Jon Stark’s age. His eyes were turned downwards and he had to wrestle the woman to free himself. She clung instead to the children around her feet.   
“My Lady,” the boy stammered.   
“Are you Rickard Morrigen.” The boy shook his head in the affirmative. His hands trembled at his sides, but he did not motion to his guards. The woman behind him could only be Lady Jyana, daughter of the former Lord of house Trant. Three young girls trembled slightly in her arms, and a young man stood protectively in front of them. A fifth child was hiding behind Jyana, too nervous to stand in the open but too curious to hide properly. “I knew another Rickard—the Lord Rickard Stark. He was a loyal and an honest man, a good man. Preferred peacefully resolutions over rash retaliation. Are you a good man, Lord Rickard?”   
He nodded again, straightening his back to keep his eyes level with her, but tilted his chin down in submission. They stood a few paces away now, and he glanced back to his family. Lady Jyana made eyes at him and his demeanor changed. His nose was suddenly upturned so that he might look down at her even from his stance a hand and a half below her.   
“My father was a good man, too,” he retorted. “And you killed him.”   
“Good man or not, I beheaded traitors yesterday. Traitors who killed my guards, my servants. Traitors who intended to kill me, and my half brother.” He began to turn his head again but she stopped him. “Don’t look at her, look at me! You know Edric, don’t you?”   
Rickard shuffled his feet like a boy caught stealing sweets. “We used to play together, my brothers and I.”  
“Do you believe a good man would harm a child, like Edric?”   
“No,” he was getting flustered now, his face blanched and his fingers twitched. His eyes were wild, and he struggled to keep his head forward. Abruptly, he took a deep breath and steadied himself. “Lady Baratheon, I cannot condone my father’s actions. I… I don’t know why he did what he did, but as the new lord of house Morrigen, I promise I will not make that same mistake. It was wrong of him to try and take Storm’s End, but he and my grandfather acted outside of the interests of our houses.”   
“Brave words,” she said flatly. “I do not intend to punish you for your father’s sins.”  
He dropped to his knee and bowed his head. “Thank you, my Lady—”  
“However,” she interrupted. “I cannot leave you to your own devices just yet. There is trust which has been cast in doubt, and you will have to earn a new trust.”   
“Trust a murderous northern whore?!” The hall became silent at Jyana’s outburst, and Rickard looked to his mother in shock. “It should be your head that is parted from your neck, not Lester’s!”   
“Reparations are in order. I will take one of your children as ward today,” Arlyse commanded. Jyana began to rant, screeching incoherently until her son commanded the guards take her to another room. She was dragged kicking and screaming, the children separated by their eldest brother’s own hands and dutifully brought before their Baratheon Lady. She imagined herself quite the sight, as not many of the women in the Stormlands stood at the height of men. She thought with some dread that the sword at her back was still caked in their father’s blood, though they could not see. She shook herself mentally and dipped her head to Rickard in thanks. “Tell me about them.”   
“This is my brother Bryden,” he gestured to the protective boy, “and this is my brother Rolan.”   
Rolan was clearly Edric’s age, and he clung to a girl with the same eyes, same nose, same look of confusion and fear. Bryden might prove to be too problematic a ward, but Rolan could find comfort in the presence of another young boy…   
“There is a tournament in King’s Landing. One I am required to attend,” she faced Rickard’s confused look and met it with more stoicism. “You will pack yourself a trunk and meet with me by tomorrow night, after you have sent your mother to a place she will be safe and… less of a distraction to you.”   
Rickard stiffened, but swallowed hard. “As you wish, my Lady.”   
“It is a command, not a wish.” Arlyse turned on her heel and took five steps before tossing a look over her shoulder. “Rolan. Pack your belongings quickly, we are leaving for King’s Landing tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, this all seems super cold, but at least no one died! I vow to never give up on unfinished works, but that does not mean I will not take super long breaks in between chapters, especially since these chapters average like 3,000 words each.


End file.
